


A Hole In The World

by SherlocksScarf



Series: No Heart For Me Like Yours [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Angst, Angst and Humor, Explicit Sexual Content, Flashbacks, Frottage, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, NO Mary Morstan in this story whatsoever, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Not your typical Wiggins, Oral Sex, Post Reichenbach, Rape/Non-con References, References to Homophobia, References to Suicide, Reunion, Romance, Slash, Suicidal Thoughts, references to child prostitution/abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2017-11-07 07:18:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 56,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlocksScarf/pseuds/SherlocksScarf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach. John struggles to cope with the loss of Sherlock. A mystery provides a distraction...or does it?</p><p>---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br/>"In all the world, there is no heart for me like yours. In all the world, there is no love for you like mine."<br/>– Maya Angelou<br/>---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Miss You Like Hell

**Author's Note:**

> _“Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.”_  
>  ― Edna St. Vincent Millay
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Author note: Part 5 of the "No Heart For Me Like Yours" series. This story contains quite a few spoilers for the rest of the series, so it would probably make much more sense to read the series in order, as it tells how John and Sherlock got to this point.  
> Warnings: Sherlock/John. Slash, slash, somewhat graphic slash. Major, major spoilers for Season 2.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Suicidal ideation; references to previous abusive relationship, non-con, sexual assault.
> 
> Please read and review!

 

**A Hole in the World**

**By Sherlock’s Scarf**

**Chapter 1: I Miss You Like Hell**

 

oOoOo

 _“Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world,  
which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime,  
and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.”_

**_―_ ** **_Edna St. Vincent Millay_ **

oOoOo

 

When the alarm goes off at 8.30, I slap the snooze button, and automatically reach across the bed, groping for the warm, pliant form that should be curled against me. Reality slams into me, burning a Sherlock-shaped hollow into my chest.

_Never again._

This is my morning routine now. A few blissful seconds of forgetting, reaching instinctively for Sherlock, then the agony of memory, of reality. The horrible emptiness inside, my skin a mere husk stretched tight over a spare framework of jagged glass.

It’s been 38 days, 18 hours, and 33 minutes since the love of my life stepped off the roof of St. Bart’s. 55,833 minutes since I became an empty shell. 3,349,980 seconds since the man who was more alive than anyone I’ve ever known chose to end that life right in front of my eyes.

Before I met Sherlock, when I first returned to London from Afghanistan, my life was grey, washed out, lifeless. I shuffled through my days, searching for reasons to bother continuing to exist. I kept my misappropriated Browning L9A1 carefully cleaned and maintained, a tacit acknowledgement that it would be needed if that search came up empty. If I hadn’t met Sherlock, I would eventually have kept that implied appointment with my gun.

Those days were a sodding _picnic_ compared to my life now.

The alarm buzzes again, and I reach over to shut it off. Groaning, I drag my sorry carcass out of bed, shuffle into the bath for my morning routine, avoiding looking in the mirror as much as I can. I can’t bear to see the hollow, empty eyes that stare back at me, the eyes of a stranger. I head into the kitchen for coffee.

It is only when I’m drinking my second cup, doing my best to keep my mind blank and _not think about anything_ , when I suddenly question – why did I set the alarm? I’m not due at the clinic, obviously – I haven’t worked there since… since it happened, so there was no need to rise so early. Then I remember, and press my fingers to the bridge of my nose, trying to control my temper.

 _Mycroft_.

I received a note from him yesterday, on a heavy, embossed notecard.

_Dear John,_

_I have respected your (loudly expressed) wish that I “stay the hell out of your sight,” but there are details that need to be discussed, and unfortunately, they cannot be delayed further. I shall call at 221B Baker Street on Sunday morning, at 9.00 am, so that we can discuss these matters. I remain,_

_Yours respectfully,  
Mycroft Holmes_

I contemplate leaving, but I know that he will only arrange to have one of his minions kidnap me, and I’d prefer to avoid another uncomfortable car journey beside “Anthea,” or whatever her real name is. So I resign myself to the inevitable, sit in my armchair, and lean back against the Union Jack pillow.

I realise that my feet are bare, consider getting up to find shoes and socks, then shrug to myself. I couldn’t be arsed to care what Mycroft thinks of my bare feet. I didn’t invite him here, he invited himself.

The doorbell buzzes briefly, and I recall Sherlock’s scornful remarks about knowing Mycroft’s ring from any other _(“He presses it for as short an amount of time as possible, then wipes his finger on his handkerchief, fastidious git”)._ A lump rises in my throat, and I close my eyes, fighting back the memory of the scornfully-rolled eyes and tossed curls that accompanied the remark.

I can’t be bothered to get up. After a moment, I hear Mrs. Hudson open the door, greeting Mycroft in her usual warm, friendly manner, and I feel a twinge of guilt for making her answer the door. I hear their voices, low and worried, and I know that they are discussing me. I sigh in irritation.

After another moment, Mycroft ends the conversation, and I listen to the click of expensive leather soles on the stairs. He appears in the open doorway, looking as though he has been starched and pressed along with his suit. For once, he isn’t swinging his ridiculous umbrella in one hand, but instead holds a fine leather attaché case.

“Good morning, John.”

“Mycroft.”

He seats himself in the leather and chrome armchair opposite mine. It is excruciating to see him sitting in Sherlock’s chair, and I have to repress the urge to shout at him, demand that he get up. Realistically, I know that the man has to sit somewhere, and every piece of furniture in the flat is associated with Sherlock in my mind.

_Straddling Sherlock in the armchair, knees on either side of his hips, exchanging long, deep, languorous kisses, tongues sliding and entwining, my hands tangled in his silky curls, his long, graceful fingers stroking up and down my spine…_

I really do need to think about moving out – I’m surrounded by Sherlock wherever I look. Is it any wonder that I can’t begin to move on?

And yet…move on to _where?_ What’s the purpose of anything anymore?

Mycroft shifts a bit in his seat, and flicks microscopic lint from his trouser leg. His cold blue eyes study me relentlessly, and finally I can’t stand it another second.

“What do you want, Mycroft?”

“I’m sorry to intrude upon you against your wishes, John. Unfortunately, there are some legal matters that must be attended to, and I can no longer delay this discussion.”

“What discussion would that be, Mycroft?”

“You are the sole beneficiary of Sherlock’s last will and testament, John. As his executor, I’ve been able to handle most of the legal legwork,” he grimaces. “However, there are papers for you to sign, and a few decisions that need to be made.”

I’m floored by this announcement. If I had given it any thought at all, I would have assumed that Sherlock’s estate would go to Mycroft. Honestly, though, it hasn’t crossed my mind. What do material possessions matter, when my reason for living, for _breathing_ , is gone?

I shake myself, dragging myself back from the edge before I burst into tears. Doing so in front of Mycroft would be mortifying.

“Fine. What do you need me to sign?”

Mycroft opens the attaché case, withdrawing a sheaf of papers and a gold fountain pen.

“I have already filled out all of the relevant tax forms, and taken the liberty of setting up an investment account for the bulk of your inheritance. All of his personal effects are yours, of course, and you can dispose of them as you see fit.”

Inheritance? Investment account? My bewilderment must be written on my face, because Mycroft adds, “Sherlock always wanted what was best for you, John. He wanted to make sure you were provided for.”

A wave of nausea sweeps over me. _He wanted what was_ best _for me?_ What’s best for me has certainly never included watching my boyfriend dash his head to a bloody pulp against a London sidewalk. What’s best for me has never included having this gaping, sucking hole in my chest, where my heart used to be.

I realise that Mycroft has said something, and I swim up out of the miasma of horror, trying to focus on the bastard’s face.

“Sorry – what?”

“I said, ‘you need to make a decision about what to do with the Strad’,” Mycroft repeats.

“What’s that?”

Mycroft tuts.

“Really, John. The Stradivarius. Sherlock’s violin. Surely you haven’t forgotten about it?”

I’m stunned. “Sherlock’s violin…is a _Stradivarius?”_ I manage to gasp out.

I’m no music aficionado, but even _I_ know that a Stradivarius is an extraordinarily rare and fine instrument, and that they cost a fortune. How the hell did I not know that Sherlock owned one? Also, good God, that thing has been _sitting in the corner of the flat_ , no special safe or anything to protect it, since I moved in. How has it not been stolen?

Mycroft is wearing a wintry little smile.

“I’m surprised that Sherlock never told you, John. That little instrument over there is a very valuable item.”

“He never said a word,” I whisper.

“Then you should probably know a few facts about your new property,” Mycroft says. “As you know, there aren’t many violins left that were made by Antonio Stradivari, only about 600 or so. This particular Stradivarius, known as ' _La Donna,'_ was crafted in 1727, and was formerly owned by Niccolo Paganini.”

I suddenly remember a conversation in Angelo’s, back before we became a couple, when Sherlock had talked on and on about Paganini, _rhapsodising_ about his virtuosity, and the brilliant techniques he had developed. _“If it weren’t for Paganini, John, you would never hear a violin as a solo instrument. His use of harmonics and pizzicato revolutionised the way the violin is played.”_

I can remember the light in his eyes as he talked on and on, more enthusiastic about Paganini than a triple homicide, and I have to bite down on the inside of my cheek to prevent myself from sobbing.

Mycroft is watching me, and I’m suddenly conscious of the grief in his eyes. I’ve so carefully nursed my rage with him over the part he played in Sherlock’s downfall that I’ve almost forgotten – he lost his little brother. And he has to carry the guilt for telling Sherlock’s secrets to his worst enemy.

Mycroft clears his throat, and continues, “This violin is valued at £1.6 million.”

What?

_“What?!?”_

Mycroft nods, and repeats himself. “£1.6 million. It is insured, of course, with Lloyd’s of London.”

“Jesus, Mycroft! That thing has been sitting here in the flat! Doesn’t Lloyd’s have requirements about where to keep an asset like that?”

“Quite right, John. I pay a hefty premium above and beyond the regular rate to cover _‘La Donna’s’_ easy accessibility. However, since you do not play, and are now the owner, perhaps you would like to sell it? Or possibly lend it to a museum? Museums will often pay the insurance premiums on items that are in their possession.”

The thought of selling Sherlock’s violin…no. _No_. It’s so much a part of who he was. The museum idea might work, but it’s too soon to think about it.

“I can’t make a decision on that right now, Mycroft.” My voice breaks a bit, and I swallow hard, then continue, “Perhaps you could take it and have it stored in a secure facility for me, until I’m ready to think about that?”

“Of course.” Mycroft rises smoothly to his feet. “If you could just sign these, then, I’ll take them and the Strad, and get out of your way.”

We cross to the kitchen table, now distressingly empty of chemistry equipment, and I take the pen to sign the documents. I have to fight to control my left hand enough to grip the pen. My tremor returned at the moment Sherlock died, and has been with me ever since. My signature is far shakier than it used to be.

Mycroft glances over the papers and tucks them back into the attaché, then steps over to the violin case resting against the wall. He opens it, examines the violin, and snaps the case closed again. He turns to go.

“I hope that soon, John, you’ll be able to move on with your life.” His manner is as prim and aloof as ever, but his eyes are sad. He waits for a response, but I can’t speak. He sighs, and steps through the doorway.

“What life?” I whisper.

He hears me, and stops on the top step, standing still for a moment, his back to me. Then he slowly continues on down, without looking back.

“Goodbye, John.”

 

oOoOo

 


	2. Stop All The Clocks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter trigger warning: Suicidal ideation.

**_Trigger warnings for this chapter: Suicidal ideation._ **

 

oOoOo

 

**Chapter 2: Stop All The Clocks**

 

oOoOo

  ** _“He was my North, my South, my East and West,_**

**_My working week and my Sunday rest,_ **

**_My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;_ **

**_I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong._ **

**_The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;_ **

**_Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;_ **

**_Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood._ **

**_For nothing now can ever come to any good.”_ **

**_―_ ** **_W. H. Auden_ **

oOoOo

 

“Why don’t you come with me today, John?”

Mrs. Hudson has dropped in again for “tea and sympathy,” as they say. She brought homemade scones and jasmine tea, and she sits beside me on the sofa, waiting for me to respond. She wants me to go with her to visit Sherlock’s…to visit Sherlock’s grave.

I didn’t go to the funeral. I haven’t been to the cemetery yet. I just can’t bring myself to see concrete proof that Sherlock is gone forever. I know, I know…it can’t be as bad to see the grave as it was to see his shattered, lifeless body on the sidewalk. And yet…

I’m not sure that I’ll ever be ready to see it.

“John?” her voice is gentle, but insistent. To buy time, I pick up the blueberry scone she has set on a plate beside me, and take a bite. She has slathered them in butter and lemon curd, trying to tempt me to eat.

It’s a ploy I used many times on Sherlock, and suddenly _I’m cuddled up on this very sofa with Sherlock, and we’re playfully tussling for the last remaining scone. I’m not trying very hard, as I really do want him to eat, but it’s fun to wrestle with him, trying to snag a bite, watching his pink lips stretch wide as he tries to cram the last half of the scone into his mouth before I can._

_Laughing at his bulging cheeks, I lean down to lick lemon curd from the luscious cupid’s bow of his lip, then allow my tongue to continue on a meandering journey from his lips, along his jawline to just below his ear. I feel his throat work as he gulps down the scone, and then he’s turning to kiss me, soft and deep, chuckling in that velvety baritone as he tightens his arms around me…_

“John, dear?”

I’m shattered at the vivid memory, and have to press my clenched fists against my eyes to hold back the sobs rising in my throat.

Mrs. Hudson slides closer to me, and puts a motherly arm around my shoulder.

“It’s all right, dear. You don’t need to hold it in with me. Go ahead and cry for him.”

I don’t want to cry. I _don’t_. It’s so hard to stop. But she continues, “Of course you miss him, John. He was the center of your world. Everyone could see it.”

And I am undone. I can’t hold back the tears anymore. I bury my face in her knees, and sob my heart out into her lap, as Mrs. Hudson strokes my hair and murmurs soothing nonsense at me.

 

oOoOo

 

It’s been 45 days, 11 hours, and 5 minutes since Sherlock left me alone. 65,465 minutes since there was any point in existing.

I am sitting on the edge of our… _my_ …neatly made bed. I’ve written a note of apology to Mrs. Hudson, but after my breakdown earlier today, she won’t be too surprised. I pick up Sherlock’s pillow, press my face into it, and breathe deeply, trying to smell him. I’ve done this too many times – the pillow smells like nothing in particular, no trace of Sherlock’s elusive, tangy scent left.

I remember something from a conversation Harry and I had a couple of years after our father killed himself. Harry said that the problem with losing someone to suicide, really, is that one is forced to accept suicide as a viable option. You know it is a legitimate way to escape the pain – you have firsthand evidence. And she added that, when you’re overwhelmed with grief, that promise of escape can seem terribly appealing.

Harry had a damn good point.

I lift my gun from the bedside table, rack the slide to make sure a bullet is chambered, and rest the barrel in my open mouth. I’ve done this so many times in the last six weeks, then changed my mind. One slight squeeze of the trigger, and I could be with him, wherever he is now. One little twitch of my finger, and all of this pain goes away.

Yet, I can’t quite bring myself to pull the trigger.

Sighing, I take the gun back out of my mouth, and sit, head hanging, and click the safety on and off again, on and off, over and over _. He loves me, he loves me not…_

My mobile buzzes on the bedside table. I ignore it, and it goes to voicemail. It buzzes twice more, then the text alert chimes. Sighing, I reach over to pick it up.

_Really, John? I never thought you’d be a man to show the white feather.  
MH_

Bloody surveillance cameras. In this case, Big Brother literally _is_ watching.

**_Piss off, Mycroft._ **

_I’m only concerned for your wellbeing, Doctor.  
MH_

**_Sherlock is gone. Stop spying on me._ **

_He certainly wouldn’t want me to let you do this.  
MH_

**_If he had cared about whether I lived or died, he wouldn’t have stepped off that roof._ **

_Actually, it seems you would be wrong about that.  
MH_

**_Why?_ **

_The police released his phone from evidence today, and sent it to me. He recorded his conversation with Moriarty on the roof.  
MH_

_It seems that he jumped in order to save your life, as well as those of Martha Hudson and Gregory Lestrade.  
MH_

My hands and lips feel numb, loose, as though I’ve been dosed with lidocaine. Is this a desperate ploy to stop me from committing suicide? Or did Sherlock die to save me?

_I can provide you with a copy of the recording first thing in the morning. Put the gun away, John. Get some rest.  
MH_

I put the safety back on, place the gun in the drawer. I’ve waited this long. I can wait a bit longer.

 

oOoOo


	3. The Memory of Joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: suicidal ideation.

**Chapter 3: The Memory of Joy**

 

oOoOo

****

**_“There is no pain so great as the memory of joy in present grief.”_ **

**_―_ ** **_Aeschylus_ **

oOoOo

 

It has been 56 days, and some odd hours since I watched him fall, since I saw his silver eyes stare unseeing through a mask of blood. I’ve stopped counting the minutes and seconds now. Does this mean I’m making progress? And if so, progress toward _what_?

Mrs. Hudson meets me at my new bedsitter, and I can tell that she is searching for some compliment to give the cheerless room. I hurry her out, saying that we shouldn’t keep the taxi waiting, but mostly I want to keep my worlds separate. She is Baker Street, and part of my life with Sherlock, and I need to keep the bedsitter separate. I can sleep there, in the little divan bed, without groping blindly for Sherlock if I wake. The walls aren’t imprinted with memories of him. It’s what I need right now.

The taxi pulls into the long, semicircular drive of the cemetery. Walking slowly to accommodate Mrs. Hudson’s pace _(and seriously, who wears kitten heels to a cemetery?),_ we make our way toward an isolated area under a lonely pine.

 _Christ_. I don’t know if I can do this.

Mycroft chose well.  The headstone is perfect, highly polished black granite, very sharp, clean lines. Very Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson walks forward and places her bouquet in front of the headstone, sweeping away a stray pine needle from the base. She glances back, and realises that I’ve halted a dozen paces from the grave. She comes back, gently takes my arm, and leads me forward to stand at the foot of the grave.

Sherlock’s grave.

The earth has settled, but the grass hasn’t filled in yet. The lettering on the headstone is gilded, sharp, and ruthless: “SHERLOCK HOLMES”.

The tremor in my left hand is worse than ever. Mrs. Hudson feels it, and squeezes my arm tighter in sympathetic support before releasing me.

“Take your time, John dear.”

We stand in silence for a while, then she speaks again.

“I wish you’d come back to the flat, John. It’s lonely there with just me. Mycroft paid the rent through the end of the year. I could help you go through his things, whenever you’re ready.”

She pauses, then adds, “There’s all the stuff, all the science equipment. I left it all in boxes. I don’t know what needs doing. I thought I’d take it to a school.” She looks at me. “Would you…?”

I shake my head.

“I can’t go back to the flat again – not at the moment.”

 

oOoOo

 

Eventually, I’m able to get her to return to the taxi, so I can have some time alone. I give myself a little shake, trying to pull it together. I can do this. The voice of Ella, my therapist, fills my head.

_Go to his grave, John. See it for yourself. Tell him the things you wanted to say, and never did. Give yourself a chance to move on._

I try. I really do. I say the things that I wanted to say; tell him that he is a hero; that I believe in him completely. I thank him for all he did for me. And eventually, I resort to pleading with him.

“One more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t…be…” my voice breaks as I struggle to hold back tears. “…dead. Would you…?” I gulp back a sob. “Just for me, just stop it.” I wave my hand, indicating the grave, the cemetery, the whole sodding _mess_.

_“Stop this.”_

I sigh, hanging my head, and simply stand there, broken. The tears fall freely now, and I cover my eyes with my hand. After a moment, I wipe my eyes, sniff back the tears, and raise my head, coming to attention in front of the grave of my best friend, my lover, my reason for living. Nodding in salute to him and giving myself permission to dismiss, I execute a smart about-face, and walk away.

 

oOoOo

 

The following two weeks are purgatory on earth. My days are spent staring at the walls of my tiny bedsitter, or pointlessly browsing the internet. There’s only so much time one can spend browsing YouTube or the BBC Online, and after losing a startling amount of money in a 3-day online poker binge, I delete my account on Party Poker. I watch too much crap telly, but even that can’t keep my mind off of Sherlock – I can hear his scornful voice ranting back at the “mindless idiots” on the screen, as clearly as if he were in the room.

If the days are purgatory, then the nights are hell.

Every night I fight to stay awake as long as possible, knowing what awaits me. Before the trip to the cemetery, my nightmares were bad, combined visions of Afghanistan and Sherlock’s fall. Now they have ratcheted up to an unbearable level. I’m not sure if I get anything but REM sleep anymore – it seems as though my sleep is one constant nightmare.

_The dream starts innocuously enough – Sherlock and I are strolling hand in hand, as we did so often during our weeks together, but we are in Afghanistan. Most people think of Helmand Province as a desert, but in my dreams, the glorious greenery and flowers are what comes back to me. We are walking through lush, high grass beside the River Helmand.  Petals from blooming apricot and almond trees drift down to land in Sherlock’s dark hair. Nearby poppy fields are a riot of colour._

_Sherlock is chuckling at something I’ve said, and his rich, warm baritone laugh warms me from head to toe. He turns to me, cups my face in his hands, and bends to press his warm lips to mine. We sink into the thick grass, and stretch out to lie together, kissing and stroking. I twine my fingers into his thick, warm, wet curls…_

_Wet?_

_Puzzled, I break the kiss, pull my hand away, and stare at my fingers, drenched in blood. I look down at Sherlock. He lies beneath me, smiling mirthlessly up at me through a mask of blood. Scrambling back in horror, I lurch into the path of an oncoming bicycle, and am knocked onto hard, cold pavement._

_Feeling a horrible, terrifying sense of dread, I look up to see the façade of St. Bart’s pathology building, looming over me, several stories high, sharply outlined against a cloudy, grey sky. Etched around the cornice of the building are the words “TOO LATE TOO LATE,” repeated endlessly just below the roofline._

_As I stumble back from the building, I realise that there is a tall, austere figure on the roof, silhouetted against the sky, arms spread wide. Sherlock tips forward and plunges toward the ground, his arms and legs flailing. I lunge forward to try and catch him, but my legs won’t move, and I know that I’m too late, always, always too late…_

I jolt upright in the bed, screaming, clutching wildly at my sweat-soaked sheets. Desperately trying to hold back the sobs, I sit on the edge of the bed, rocking back and forth, my head in my hands. There’s no point in going on. Ella was wrong. Visiting the grave did nothing to help me move on. I can’t shake the feeling that he’s still here, his graceful figure always in the corner of my eye, disappearing when I look for him. For God’s sake, I even thought for a moment that I saw him at the cemetery, watching me from nearby as I wept at his grave. Moving out of the flat hasn’t stopped Sherlock from being everywhere that I turn, his face and his voice filling my head.

It has been 71 days since Sherlock left me. Maybe he’s just waiting for me to catch up.

 

oOoOo

 

“John, dear, I was hoping that we could go out for tea. I haven’t talked with you since we went to visit Sherlock’s grave, and I’d like to spend a little time with you.”

Mrs. Hudson. So much more than a mere landlady to me, and practically a surrogate mother to Sherlock. Sherlock never talked much about his mother, and I’ve never met her, but I have the distinct impression that Mrs. Holmes is a cold, remote woman. I’ve always had the feeling that Mrs. Hudson filled some of that void for Sherlock. I know that she has always mothered both of us, providing little treats, tidying up _(despite her insistence that she was_ not _our housekeeper),_ and showing her affection in a hundred little ways.

Now she’s here at my charmless bedsit, asking for my company.

I’ve already made the decision. This very morning, after the worst dream yet, I decided that I can’t take it any more. Life is just not worth living without Sherlock. But, Mrs. Hudson doesn’t ask for much. Spending an afternoon having tea with her is little enough to offer in return for all that she has done for both of us.

“I’d be glad to have tea with you, Mrs. Hudson,” I say, forcing a smile onto my face. I reach for my jacket, and follow her into the dreary corridor that always smells faintly of urine. I’ll put on a cheerful face, if I can, and spend a few last hours with her.

When I get back to the bedsitter, I’ll write a new note, and finally keep that long-held appointment with my Browning.

 

 

oOoOo

 

Mrs. Hudson chooses one of those cafés with tiny tables and chairs, where there is hardly room on the table for teacups and saucers. We squeeze into the chairs, and I remember _sitting with Sherlock in a café in Paris, while tracking down an international jewel-smuggling operation. He refuses to eat, of course, but I bully him into drinking a cup of coffee and he unbends enough to nibble at a galette._

_We are at a tiny, marble-topped table, in two ridiculously dainty chairs made of wrought iron. The tables are so small that our knees are knocking together, and it is so crowded that Sherlock is afraid to move much, for fear of elbowing the diners seated around him._

_I don’t believe for a moment that he is worried about hurting them – Sherlock doesn’t worry about the feelings of others very often. I am fairly certain, however, that he is reluctant to move much for fear of looking clumsy._

_As we sit there, I notice his comical posture – elbows awkwardly held tight against his sides, sitting far too low for a man of his stature, knees pressed against the bottom of the tabletop. Suddenly, he looks for all the world like a praying mantis._

_Once my mind has made the connection, I am_ gone _, giggling like a small child. His bewildered half-smile only fuels my hysteria._

_“I’m sorry – you just look so…so…” my words dissolve into howls of mirth, and I laugh until tears roll down my cheeks._

_Apparently my hilarity is contagious, because he begins to chuckle as well, and we laugh, and laugh…_

I thought we would be able to laugh together forever.

Mrs. Hudson sees my misery, and she tries to chat about neighborhood gossip: Mrs. Turner’s married ones are in the process of adopting a baby; Mr. Chatterjee’s wife from Islamabad showed up at Baker Street, and the scene the wife from Doncaster made needed to be seen to be believed; Croque Monsieur has added a new prawn and avocado sandwich to their menu that is the best thing she’s ever tasted. Every mention of the place where Sherlock and I were so happy is another punch to my gut.

I have to tune her out to keep from shouting at her to _just shut up and leave me alone_. Her chatter becomes white noise, and I fall into my memories, remembering _the café in Paris, the thrilling chase of two smugglers through tiny alleyways, and tackling the legs out from under one of them while Sherlock knocks the other out with a sharp punch to the side of the neck. I remember the walk back to the hotel after we finish at Interpol, holding hands, stopping periodically to snog against picturesque walls, until we stumble, so tangled together that we can barely stand, into the hotel room. And, ohhhhh, I remember pulling Sherlock down into the cool, crisp sheets, remember him gently working me open with fingers and lube; remember sinking slowly onto him, moving together in a timeless rhythm, admiring his beautiful, beautiful face in the moonlight that streams through the window, murmuring his name softly in his ear as he throws his head back and fists his hands in the sheets…_

“John, dear?” Mrs. Hudson is holding out a tissue, patting me on the arm, and I become aware that silent tears are rolling down my cheeks.

I clear my throat, take the tissue and blot my eyes and cheeks, and try to collect myself. I’m overwhelmed with embarrassment at my loss of control in front of so many people, and I have to force myself to sit up straighter, firm up my chin, and clench my jaw.

“I’m sorry, dear. I should have realised that talking about home would be too much for you.”

Home. She thinks that Baker Street is home to me. While she’s right so some extent, it’s only because Baker Street is inextricably linked with Sherlock in my mind.

 _Sherlock_ was home to me. And now I can never go home again.

Mrs. Hudson squeezes my hand, and says, “When you get back to your flat, you should have a little lie-down and get some rest.”

“I’ll do that.” I’m eager now to get back to the bedsit, write my note, and move on to whatever comes next. As long as Sherlock is there, death can’t be that bad.

I’m so ready to see him again.

 

oOoOo

 

I’ve tidied the bedsitter, and now I sit down at the tiny desk, pulling a notepad toward me. I write a short, simple note. My tremor is fairly mild – it’s as though my hand knows that it’s almost over.

_To whomever finds me, I am sorry. I wish there was a way to do this without hurting someone, but that’s not enough reason to stay here. I can’t do this any longer – I need to be with Sherlock. He was my reason for living, and without him, I’ve just been marking time._

_Harry, I’m sorry for putting you through this. I love you._

_PS.  For what it’s worth, if anybody out there cares, I will never believe that Sherlock was a fraud. He died to save me, to save his friends. He was real, he was extraordinary, and he was a miracle. My miracle._

I sign it with a flourish, glad to be finished with the last detail.

_Now, for the gun._

I sit on the divan bed, open the drawer of my bedside table – and freeze.

Resting on top of the gun, impossible to miss, is a postcard of the Cross Keys Inn in Dartmoor, where we stayed while solving Henry Knight’s case, and where we returned for our first holiday as a couple. With trembling fingers, I pick it up and turn it over.

In bold black ink across the back are five large capital letters, with full stops drawn after each one. Below them is a short note, also written in block letters.

 

**_U.M.Q.R.A._ **

**_COME TO THE VALLEY OF FEAR._ **

I have no idea what “the valley of fear” is, but I only told one person about my mistaking the flash of headlights from a car for Morse code, spelling U.M.Q.R.A., and that person threw himself off the roof of St. Bart’s. I was certain that no one else knew about it. Obviously, I was wrong.

I pick up my Browning, check the clip, and place it on the bed. “I guess our date will have to wait a bit,” I say to the gun. It doesn’t reply.

I pull out a bag and start packing, making sure the gun and ammunition go in the side zip pocket. Looks like I’m headed to Dartmoor.

 

oOoOo

 


	4. We Were Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Vivid memory of Men Going At It.

oOoOo

 

**Chapter 4: We Were Together**

 

oOoOo

  ** _“We were together. I forget the rest.”_**

**_– Walt Whitman_ **

oOoOo

 

Driving to Dartmoor in the hire car, I’m struck by how different this trip is from the previous two. The first time Sherlock and I made this journey, Sherlock drove, insisting on a ridiculous behemoth of a Land Rover. Sherlock behind the wheel was an interesting mix of precision and mania, fluctuating between extremely calm, competent handling of the car and sudden bursts of distraction that seemed to happen at the most inopportune moments.

The second time we went to Dartmoor, for a romantic holiday, I insisted on making the travel arrangements, and I drove the midsize sedan that we hired. Sherlock grumbled about not being able to see as well as he could in the Land Rover, but I pointed out that the Toyota Auris that I had hired had twice the fuel efficiency of the Land Rover, so he should belt up about it.

On both trips, both before and after we started shagging, the long drive flew by, with plenty of stimulating conversation, interspersed with long periods of companionable silence. Now, traveling alone in another fuel-efficient sedan, it feels as though the drive will never end. Intellectually, I know it’s the same amount of time for all three trips, almost four hours. So why does it seem like I’ve been driving twice that amount of time?

Looking out at the granite tors of Dartmoor, at the clumps of heather and gorse that dot the bleak hillsides, I remember being here with Sherlock, being happy together, and my stomach twists inside of me. _God, I miss him so much._

I’ve spent much of the drive puzzling over the postcard, wondering who managed to break into my bedsitter and plant it in my bedside table drawer. If Moriarty weren’t convincingly, verifiably dead, he would top my list of suspects – no, he would _be_ the list. I suppose it could be someone from his criminal network, but that doesn’t make sense. Sherlock’s…gone. There would be no point or profit in taunting me.

Mycroft certainly could manage it, but it’s not really his style. Plus, he’s been very solicitous of me since…well, he’s been quite kind. I have no wish to spend time with him – I still remember what he did to help destroy Sherlock, however inadvertent it was – but I don’t see him doing something like this.

I can’t imagine anyone else who would do it, though, who could possibly have discovered the U.M.Q.R.A. incident through surveillance of some kind. The message, “COME TO THE VALLEY OF FEAR” is completely puzzling. I don’t recall hearing the phrase “valley of fear” before. I have no clue what I’m going to do when I get there, I just know that I can’t leave this alone. Sherlock rubbed off on me, I guess – I am now incapable of resisting a mystery.

 

oOoOo

 

When I walk into the Cross Keys Inn, Gary Barnes-Windigate, the innkeeper, looks up and grins when he recognises me. His dark eyes twinkle at me from his ruddy, smiling face.

“Doctor Watson! So good to see you again!” He turns, calling back into the kitchen, “Billy! Doctor Watson’s here!”

_When Sherlock and I came here for our romantic minibreak, Sherlock casually pointed out that the accountant who handled the books for The Cross Keys was “obviously” skimming the profits, and had been for some time. Gary and Billy tried to hire him on the spot to provide evidence. It took him all of half an hour, for which he refused to accept payment. (Sociopath, my arse.) In return, they loaded us up with every extra amenity that they could think of, and refused to charge us for our stay. Once again, Sherlock managed to get on the good side of a proprietor, and we reaped the benefits…_

Gary’s husband, one of the few men around who can actually make me feel tall, comes around the corner, seemingly delighted to see me.

 “It’s so nice to see you again, Doctor Watson,” Billy says, and then the smile vanishes.

“I was so sorry to hear about Mr. Holmes.” His blue eyes, round, cheerful face and ginger goatee look singularly at odds with the somber expression that he wears. Gary nods, adopting a similar expression.

“Wonderful man, Mr. Holmes,” he muses, ruffling his salt-and-pepper curls idly. “He saved our business, that’s for certain. If he hadn’t pointed out that our accountant was cooking the books, Billy and I would have had to sell up. We owe him so much.”

We are all silent for a moment. Then Gary adds, “Never could put anything past him. A man capable of absolutely anything.”

I feel the lump rise in my throat again, and clear it briskly. Billy and Gary’s expressions tell me that I’m not doing a good job of hiding my emotions. I want nothing more than to end this conversation. Clenching my jaw a bit, I raise my eyebrows at them pointedly. Gary takes the hint.

“We’ve taken the liberty of putting you in one of the double rooms, Doctor Watson. We’re only half-full right now, so we thought you might prefer the convenience of an _en suite_ bath. We’ll only charge you for the single rate, mind.”

“That’s very kind of you.” I bend to pick up my bag from the floor beside me, and follow Gary over to the desk, where he hands me the room key.

Oh, God. It’s room 221. Sherlock and I stayed in that room when we came here for our romantic getaway, and joked that we couldn’t get away from that number.

I look up at Gary’s pleasant, open face and know that if I ask for a different room, he’ll feel terrible for inadvertently hurting me. I can’t do it.

“Thanks, Mr. Barnes-Windigate.”

“Please, I told you before that it’s Gary,” he laughs. “Billy and I must have been mad, to go the double-barreled name route like that. Windigate is bad enough without adding an extra syllable to the front. What a mouthful.”

I manage to smile back at him, feeling how weak those facial muscles have become from lack of use.

“Thanks, then, Gary. And it’s John, not Doctor Watson, okay?”

“Absolutely, John. Let me know if there’s anything you need to make your stay more comfortable. We start serving tea at 3.30, and dinner at 6.00.”

“Ta, Gary.”

 

oOoOo

 

The room is exactly the same as it was when I shared it with Sherlock. It hits me like a sledgehammer, the memory of the time we spent here. I drop my bag by the foot of the large bed, and sit to unlace and pull off my boots.  I stretch out on the bed, close my eyes and _remember..._

**_  
_**

****

**_(3 months earlier)_ **

_Sherlock closes the door behind us, locks it with a flourish, and shrugs out of his coat, draping it and his scarf over the hook on the back of the door. As I tug off my shooting jacket to hang it on the adjoining hook, Sherlock takes a running leap at the bed and flings himself on it, rolling over to stretch across the bed like a cat in a sunbeam. He grins at me lasciviously._

_“Care to join me, Doctor Watson?”_

_Laughing, I reach over to tug off his shoes, mindful of the pristine white duvet. Slowly, I peel off his socks, caressing the sensitive instep as I bare each foot. Sherlock almost purrs with pleasure at the contact. I’ve discovered that Sherlock practically melts into a puddle at having his feet tickled. He hates to be tickled almost anywhere else, but he will lounge with his feet in my lap for well over an hour, reveling in the sensation of my fingers stroking and tickling his feet. Then he will flip over, plant his head in my lap, and expect the same ministration to his luxurious dark curls. (He’s so very feline.)_

_Perhaps it’s odd to say so, but Sherlock has the sexiest feet I’ve ever seen. They’re like the rest of him – his long, graceful fingers, his swanlike neck, his elegant high arches, his lean, well-shaped legs – they’re all of a piece, his body’s symmetry is perfect, in individual parts and as a whole._

_(God, how was I lucky enough to capture the heart of this impossibly beautiful man?)_

_I pause to remove my own shoes and socks, then climb over Sherlock, straddling his hips and smiling down at him. His Cheshire cat grin is wider than ever, and he reaches up to cup the back of my neck with his warm palm, pulling me down for a kiss._

_His soft lips are already slightly parted, and I take advantage of that, teasing my tongue inside to just touch the tip of his. He deepens the kiss, his tongue exploring my mouth thoroughly, sliding warmly against my own. His hands are roaming over my back, sliding down to cup my arse, pulling me closer to him. His knee lifts, his thigh pressing gently up against my groin, and I groan softly with pleasure at the contact._

_He rolls us over, so that the full length of his body is stretched atop mine. I tighten my arms around him, one hand snaking up to stroke through his unbelievably soft curls, the other wandering over his sumptuous arse. He releases my mouth to kiss his way along my jawline to my throat, nipping and sucking at the tender skin._

_He abruptly pulls back to sit up on his knees, straddling my hips, and begins impatiently unbuttoning his dark red shirt. As he pulls it off to bare his slim, muscular torso, he smiles down at me._

_“You are wearing entirely too many clothes, John.”_

_“Well, I’m certain that a clever man like you can find some way to remedy that situation, Sherlock.”_

_He grins at me, seizes the hem of my jumper, and tugs it upward. I assist him in pulling it off, and my shirt swiftly follows. He leans down for a kiss, pressing close to me, and the sensation of bare skin on bare skin is intoxicating. He rolls off of me so that he can reach the button and flies of my jeans, and he soon has them open._

_As I’m working at opening his belt and trousers, he slips his hand into my pants, cupping my erection. I gasp as his warm, slim fingers curve around to grip my cock, sliding up and down firmly. Abruptly, he slides swiftly down my body, taking me in his mouth in one sudden movement._

_“Sherlock!”_

_His silvery eyes are gazing up at me, those full, pink lips wrapped around my cock, and he hums with pleasure. The vibration leaves me gasping, his tongue is swirling around the head, and my back is arching and it’s too much toomuchohmygodSherlock!_

_He pulls off slowly, then pointedly meets my eyes before swallowing very deliberately, and licking his lips. (Oh, dear God, that is so_ sexy _.) He slides back up to kiss me deeply, and I can taste myself on his tongue (even sexier). He smiles down at me._

_“All right, John?”_

_“God, yes.”_

_I roll us over, and sit up to peel off his trousers and pants, then I stand to remove my jeans and boxer briefs from where they have bunched around my thighs. I reach over to grab my shaving kit from my bag and bring it back to the bedside table. I pull out a bottle of lube, and raise my eyebrows at him as I hold up a condom._

_“We both tested negative, so these are optional now. What do you think – care to go bareback?”_

_Sherlock’s eyes widen, the pupils dilating rapidly, making me think of a cat that has just spotted its prey._

_“Are you sure, John?”_

_“Absolutely.”_

_I drop the condom back in the kit, fetch a large towel from the bathroom, and bring towel and lube back to the bed. Sherlock has climbed off of the bed to fold the snowy duvet back over the footboard of the bed. He reaches for the towel and spreads it across the sheets._

_We stand on either side of the bed, just looking at each other for a moment. Then Sherlock speaks._

_“Actually, John…” he swallows hard, then almost whispers, “maybe_ you _should be the one to…‘go bareback,’ as you say.”_

_I search his eyes, seeing anxiety there, but no fear. We haven’t done this before. His horrible history with Sebastian Wilkes* left him terrified of being the recipient of anal sex. We’ve explored everything else, to our great mutual pleasure, and I have discovered, to my infinite surprise and delight, that “bottoming” feels fantastic._

_(If you had told me a few months ago that I would turn out to absolutely love cock, I would have told you to get your head examined – or would have knocked it off your shoulders.)_

_So I have never “topped” Sherlock, and have assumed that we’d keep on as we have, since it has worked out very, very well so far. Apparently, Sherlock has other ideas._

_I step around the bed to take him in my arms. “Are you sure you’re ready for this, Sherlock? We don’t ever have to do this, you know.”_

_His lips quirk up in a small smile._

_“John, I have watched you being on the receiving end for weeks, and you are clearly enjoying it quite a bit. I can’t help but think I’m missing out on something. I’d like to know what you are feeling.” He pauses for a moment, then adds quietly, “If I don’t try to move on, then I’m letting him beat me again.”_

_I tighten my arms around him, enjoying the feel of his lean, naked body pressed to mine, and think about what he has said. Wilkes enjoyed humiliating and dominating Sherlock, and he probably_ would _enjoy knowing that he had ruined some aspects of sex for Sherlock._

_(Of course, he can’t know anything now. When we saw the news story a few weeks ago, about the “tragic escalator accident” that had killed Sebastian Wilkes, we didn’t really discuss it. I think both of us know, deep down, that Mycroft had a hand in it, but we didn’t talk about it, instead tossing the newspaper in the bin and heading out for a long walk in Regent’s Park. Sometimes there’s simply nothing to say.)_

_“All right, love. But we’re taking it slowly, and you can tell me to stop at_ any _time. You understand that, right?”_

_He kisses me softly, pulling me down onto the bed._

_“I trust you, John.”_

_We stretch out, side by side, trading long, languorous kisses, stroking each other’s bodies, the kisses growing more and more heated and urgent. Finally I break the kiss to sit up and begin kissing my way down Sherlock’s body, enjoying the clean, salty taste and smell of his warm skin, noticing the hint of musk as I reach his groin. Reaching for the little bottle I had placed on the bed earlier, I kneel between his spread thighs, and apply a dab to the fingers of both hands, spreading it generously over them._

_I curl my slicked fingers around Sherlock’s shaft, making him gasp and purr with pleasure. Leaning down, I tease my tongue over the head, allowing the slippery fingers of my other hand to wander down, paying plenty of attention to his perineum, and then gently, gently, I find his tight, closed opening._

_I’m watching him closely, ready to stop immediately if he gives any indication of fear or panic. He had been lying back with his eyes closed, lost in sensation, but as I circle gently around his anus, his eyes fly open and meet my gaze._

_“All right, Sherlock?”_

_“Y-yes…” he whispers, hesitantly._

_“Sherlock, we can stop.”_

_“No.” His smile is hesitant, but warm. “I told you – I trust you, John. You would never hurt me.”_

_(God, no._ Never _.)_

_I smile back at him, a lump in my throat from the sudden rush of emotion – how did I win the love and trust of this wonderful man?_

_“I love you.”_

_His smile broadens, crinkling the corners of his eyes._

_“I love you, too.”_

_I resume my careful, gentle caresses. He groans and cants his hips upward, obviously enjoying the new sensations. I renew my gentle tongue-teasing of his cock as I gently apply a bit of soft pressure with one fingertip. He tenses for a moment, then relaxes a bit against the intruding fingertip, allowing it to slip inside. His eyes widen as I slowly, carefully work the fingertip in and out, helping the muscle to yield more easily._

_When I slip a second finger inside his hot opening, I enclose the head of his cock in my mouth at the same moment, distracting him to the point that he doesn’t seem to notice the additional intrusion. I continue to swirl my tongue around his exposed glans as I slowly work and stretch the taut ring of muscle, then pause to crook my fingers up to (here’s an unexpected fringe benefit of being a doctor!) unerringly caress his prostate._

_Sherlock arches wildly back with a guttural bellow of shock._

_“John! Oh my God, John!!”_

_(I think he likes it.)_

_I add a third finger, still stretching, stroking a finger across his prostate again and again as I do so, watching the startling amount of pre-ejaculate that is now streaming from the tip of his cock. Sherlock writhes in ecstasy, completely lost in the moment._

_(I finally found a way to turn that great brain off completely. I’ll have to remember this for the next time he’s holding my Browning and eyeing the wall.)_

_Sherlock’s hands are clutching the sheets spasmodically._

_“John, John, John…I need more. I need you, John. Inside me. Please…”_

_I sit up a moment, then lie down beside him on the towel. Sherlock looks up, startled, anxiety creasing the skin between his eyebrows._

_“John?”_

_“Sherlock, the first time we did this, I had the easiest time when I was on top. I think you should start out that way.”_

_The relief on his face is almost funny – he must have been worried that I would stop. My mind flashes back for one instant to the sight of Sherlock, cowering in anticipation of the pain and fear that he had come to expect from a sexual partner. When I see him now, climbing atop me to straddle my hips, desire radiating from his moonstone eyes, I’m overwhelmed with joy. He has come so far._

_I reach for the lube bottle, apply a generous dollop of lube to my fingers, and slick my erection lavishly. Sherlock lifts up, and positions himself above me, the tip of my cock pressing against his entrance. His eyes lock with mine._

_“I love you.”_

_“God, I love you, too, Sherlock.”_

_Slowly, slowly, he sinks down, enclosing me, and Christ, he’s so tight and hot and_ amazing _. My hands rest on his slim hips, my thumbs circling against his hipbones._

 _His eyes are enormous, the pupils so dilated that they almost look black. He moans loudly as he slowly settles down, taking me in fully. We gaze into each other’s eyes, and I’m suddenly struck by the feeling that this is somehow_ sacred _, this intimacy, this communion between us._

_He begins to move his hips experimentally, lightly rocking, and I bring my knees up behind him, knowing what that angle has done for me when I’ve been in this position. Sure enough, he throws back his head with a hoarse shout as the head of my cock makes firm contact with his prostate. I begin to gently thrust, reveling in the sight of his flushed face, surrounded by a tumbled halo of black curls, lost in a haze of pleasure._

_He feels absolutely amazing, so hot and velvety, so incredibly tight and stimulating. I’m not going to last much longer. I curl the fingers of my left hand around his straining erection, and he groans in pleasure, babbling incoherently, as I begin to stroke him firmly._

_“John! John you’re so beautiful, John, you are so amazing, wonderful, my John, my John, mine mine oh God, Jooohhn!”_

_He arches back, screaming my name, pulsing in pearly streams over my belly and chest. His body is squeezing and clenching around me, tightening down even more, and I’m coming with a shout of my own, clutching Sherlock’s hips and shaking._

_He collapses forward over me, burying his face in my neck, murmuring my name over and over: John, John, John, a mantra. I wrap my arms around him tightly, wishing I could hold him this close forever…_

 

oOoOo

 

I wake to find tears streaming down my face. Nothing new for me these days, although I’m a bit disconcerted to find myself at the Cross Keys Inn, on the bed I’d just been dreaming about.

The empty bed.

I roll onto my side, curl into a foetal position, and sob into the fluffy, white pillows.

oOoOo

_*See “[Song of Sherlock](../../360009)” and “[My Brother’s Keeper](../../387899)” for further backstory._

 


	5. Keep Going

oOoOo

 

**Chapter 5: Keep Going**

 

oOoOo

  ** _“If you're going through hell, keep going.”_**

 **_―_ ** **_Winston Churchill_ **

oOoOo

 

 

I must have drifted off _(or more accurately, cried myself to sleep)_ , because when I open my eyes again, the rosy tints of sunset are streaming in the window. It takes me a moment to orient myself, to figure out where I am. I fumble for the pull-chain on the bedside lamp, then peer at the old-fashioned alarm clock on the nightstand. It is almost 7.30 in the evening. I sit up, groaning, and rub my face vigorously. It doesn’t really help.

A shower. That should wake me up. Grateful to Gary and Billy for their kindness in providing me with an _en suite_ bath, I step under the hot spray and just stand, letting the water pour over my head and back, trying not to think, trying not to _remember_ …

_Sherlock’s water-slicked chest pressed to my naked back, soapy hands gliding over my skin, making sure that every last inch of my body was lavished with attention…_

_Stop it._

_Stop doing this._

I need to get my head in the game. Whoever is taunting me with the postcard wants me here, and I need to stay focused. This is not the time to wallow in memories and grief.

I abruptly turn the water all the way to cold, and force myself to stand under the icy needles of spray until I am shivering. Then I turn off the water, step out, and dry off with a thick towel. I shave, brush my teeth, comb my hair, then get dressed. Lastly, I tuck my Browning into the back of my waistband, covering it with my jacket.

_Right. Time to get started._

When I enter the dining room, Gary is just handing a takeaway container to a young woman in a worn duffel coat, her mousy brown hair pulled back in an untidy knot. He turns and spots me in the doorway.

“John!” He smiles and gestures toward an empty table.

As I approach Gary, the young woman brushes past me. There’s something familiar about her, but I can’t place it. Of course, I’ve stayed here twice before, and seen a number of the locals, so it’s not a big surprise that someone would look familiar.

Gary escorts me to a table.

“Come, have some dinner. Tonight we have a moussaka made with aubergine and red lentil, an asparagus and mushroom risotto, and a red Thai curry with grilled aubergine. What can I bring you to drink, while you decide?”

“A Guinness would be lovely, Gary,” I reply, “and I’ll take the moussaka, please.”

“Certainly.”

As I sip my stout and wait for my meal, I look around the room. The fireplace lends a cozy, intimate atmosphere. I remember _sitting here with Sherlock the first night of our getaway, feeling so relaxed and happy, sated from a long afternoon in bed with my gorgeous lover. We sip wine and talk long into the evening, then go for a walk in the gloaming.  Strolling hand-in-hand, we amble around the walking paths, talking about our planned visit to the apiary the following morning. Sherlock can hardly wait to get to the Dartmoor Bee Station. He is absolutely fascinated by bees…_

“Here you are, John.” Gary interrupts my reverie to place a fragrant plate before me.

“This looks wonderful, Gary.” I pause, then ask, “Would you join me for a moment? I just had a question, if you have a minute.”

“Of course.” He sits in the chair opposite me. “What did you want to ask?”

“Gary, have you ever heard of ‘The Valley of Fear?’”

His genial face looks bewildered.

“Nae, never heard of it, John. What is it?”

“I’ve no idea,” I say. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Where did you hear of it?”

“Errrm…someone mentioned it. Since they mentioned Dartmoor as well, I thought it might be a local attraction.”

“Sorry, John – I’ve never heard of a ‘Valley of Fear.’”

“It’s fine, Gary. It was a long shot, anyway.”

He smiles apologetically, then excuses himself to welcome and seat an elderly couple who have just arrived.

I take a bite of the moussaka, then another, not really considering the meal beyond simply consuming fuel for “the transport,” as Sherlock would have said. Once upon a time, I would have spent time savouring the rich flavours, but my appetite has gone to hell in the last two months. I just can’t seem to work up the energy to focus on food.

I find myself looking again at the two armchairs by the fire, where Sherlock sat after being dosed with Project H.O.U.N.D.’s fear-inducing drug in Dewer’s Hollow. We were unaware at the time that a madman had rigged a pressure plate in the gully to disperse an aerosolised form of the drug into the air. The results were quite shocking for Sherlock. Poor Sherlock, so carefully buttoned up for so long, struggled against an emotion as strong as the terror that the drug induced, and, of course, he had no idea what had brought it all on.

Sherlock sat in that chair and ranted on and on to me about emotions, about being afraid, about fear…

_Fear._

The _Valley_ of _Fear?_

_Dewer’s Hollow._

I can’t eat another bite. Waving to Gary, I call out, “Gary, can you put this on my bill?”

“Of course, John. See you later!”

I rush out the door, headed for my hire car, and Dewer’s Hollow.

 

oOoOo

 

These woods are spooky at any time of day, but particularly so in the dark, the trees creating eerie silhouettes against the light from my pocket torch. It’s a starless night, heavy cloud cover heralding an approaching storm, and mist curling in low-lying hollows. Nightjar calls and the hoarse shrieks of a night heron just make it more disquieting, and when a barn owl suddenly screeches right above my head, I can’t help jumping a bit.

I don’t recall feeling this jumpy the first time Sherlock, Henry and I came to Dewer’s Hollow at night, but of course, I wasn’t alone, and hadn’t received anonymous postcards via my bedside table drawer. That probably makes a man a bit more nervous.

I realise that it is a bit insane to be doing this alone. Moriarty is dead, but I have no doubt that he had many connections, and it is highly likely that the person who has left me this message is very dangerous indeed.

Maybe that’s why the tremor has left my hand for the first time in two months.

Dewer’s Hollow was formed as a result of tin-mining – Dartmoor is dotted with ancient mines, long played out and forgotten, and many of them have caused sinkholes or caves to form. The Hollow is a steep, rocky depression with several caves branching away from it. It’s a creepy place to begin with, and my worry about Moriarty’s network isn’t helping my anxiety level.

So, when I round the large granite outcropping that intrudes into the path in the middle of the Hollow, and nearly run headlong into the young woman from the restaurant earlier, my reaction isn’t the best. With an inarticulate shout, I yank the Browning from its hiding place at the small of my back, and put plenty of space between us.

The woman _(why do I know her face?)_ stumbles back, frightened, raising her hands.

“Please…don’t!”

I lower the gun, but don’t put it away, and I keep the light from my torch trained on her face.

“Who are you? Did you leave the postcard? Why did you contact me?”

“I…I…didn’t!” she gasps, then quirks her shoulder up with a wry look, adding, “Okay, yeah, the postcard, that was me. Only I wasn’t contacting you myself, was I? I was just doing as he asked. That’s what he pays me for, innit?”

“Who pays you?” I step forward, still holding the gun by my side. “Who hired you to put the postcard in my drawer?”

She looks at me, the fear gone from her eyes.

“You’re not goin’ ta shoot me, Doctor Watson. You _know_ who hired me.”

My left hand trembles. _Damn it._ I tighten my grip on my Browning.

“Moriarty?” I manage to whisper the name.

And she laughs. She _laughs!_

“Moriarty blew his brains out on the roof of St. Bart’s, Doctor. And that sod _never_ hired me. I might sleep rough and do a bit o’ buskin’ now and then, but I never would have taken _his_ money.”

“I don’t understand...” I’m staring at her, trying to piece together who might have hired her, when I hear a deep, velvety baritone voice behind me, the one that has haunted my dreams for two months, that I’d never thought I’d hear again in this lifetime.

“Perhaps I should explain, John.”

I whirl around, and there, fog swirling around his feet, stands a terribly gaunt, pale, ginger-haired wraith of a man, whose bearded face is achingly, terrifyingly familiar.

_Sherlock._

 

oOoOo

 


	6. When the Gods Wish to Punish Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: Graphic slash.

 

oOoOo

 

**Chapter 6: When the Gods Wish to Punish Us**

 

oOoOo

**_“When the gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers.”_ **

**_―_ ** **_Oscar Wilde_ **

oOoOo

 

 

 

_Sherlock._

I stagger backward, my knees buckling traitorously beneath me. My gun and torch drop from my suddenly nerveless fingers, as my body collides with the granite outcropping. That’s probably a good thing – without the solid stone at my back, I’m not sure I would be standing right now.

“It’s you,” I gasp in a hoarse whisper. My mouth has gone completely dry, and a chunk of ice big enough to sink the Titanic has dropped into the pit of my stomach. I lift my hand to scrub at my face, trying to orient myself.

The man standing before me is painfully thin, clothes hanging on his haggard frame. His hair, cut short and dyed a dark ginger, stands up in wild disarray, and a scant, patchy beard covers his jaw. Yet despite all of these differences, despite his being dressed in ragged clothing and a worn anorak, too skinny, clearly unwashed and sleep-deprived, I know his face instantly. There is no mistaking those incredible, almond-shaped eyes, those extraordinary cheekbones, those full, elaborately-sculpted lips. It’s him.

It’s Sherlock. _Alive._

_How?_

He reaches out, takes a step toward me. And that’s when _I remember Sherlock’s exultant voice, high on the pleasure of solving another mystery, explaining his deductions to Henry Knight. “He had the means right at his feet – a chemical minefield, pressure pads in the ground, dosing you up every time that you came back here.”_

The drug. Project H.O.U.N.D.’s drug, the one that causes fear-based hallucinations. This is where the dispersal system was located.

I’m _hallucinating_. He’s not real.

_Not real._

Moaning, I slide down the wall of granite at my back, unmindful of the rough stone snagging and ruining my jacket. Cradling my head in my hands, I press my face into my drawn-up knees, moaning softly.

“You’re not really here, this is just the drugs in the fog, I’m hallucinating, you’re not real…”

Sherlock’s voice, speaking sharply, “Leave us, Wiggins. You can return to London now. I’ll be in touch.”

_Not real._

A crinkle of money changing hands. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

I press my face harder into my knees, the coarse denim reassuring against my skin.

_…Wait._

Wiggins?

 _Wiggins_.

 _That’s_ who the young woman is! The homeless girl that Sherlock uses most often for information gathering. I _knew_ I recognised her face!

But I spotted her at the _inn_ , not here in Dewer’s Hollow. So…she’s _real_.

And if _she’s_ here, then that means…

_Oh._

_Oh, my God._

 “John, it’s me. _Think_. You _know_ they removed Frankland’s drug-dispersal system as evidence. There is no drug. I’m here. I’m _real_. Look at me, _please_.”

Two denim-clad knees drop to the stony ground in front of me, the texture of the fabric starkly highlighted by the beam from the fallen torch. A cool hand tentatively grips my shoulder, and I lift my head to gaze into intense, silvery eyes.

 “John?”

 _Sherlock_.

He’s _real_. He’s _alive_.

My trembling fingers reach up to touch his shoulder, his neck, his beautiful face. The scraggly beard under my fingers doesn’t cover enough of his face to hide the sunken hollows of his cheeks.  I can’t speak, can’t find the words.

“John…” his voice breaks, and his long, slim fingers come up to tentatively cup my face. “John, I missed you so much…”

And the eerie, cold spell of disbelief is broken. He’s _real_.

I lunge forward, seizing his face and hair as hard as I can, bringing our mouths together into a bruising, fierce kiss. There is nothing tender or gentle about this reunion – it is a violent clash of lips and tongues and teeth, of grasping hands and clawing fingernails. This is not lovemaking. This is a simple need to put my hands on his body, to verify the life within for myself.

I rip Sherlock’s shirt open, buttons flying everywhere, and shove his shirt and jacket from his shoulders in one impatient movement. When one shirt cuff stubbornly clings to his wrist, I rip it so hard that he hisses in pain before the seam parts. His t-shirt swiftly follows. I run my hands over his chest, wincing at the prominence of his ribs.

Sherlock pushes off my jacket and tugs my jumper over my head, flinging it down to the ground beside us. He unbuttons my jeans and opens the flies, pushing them down my hips along with my pants.

The button to Sherlock’s trousers is being incredibly stubborn, and I growl with frustration. Sherlock nudges my hands aside long enough to open them for me, and then I am shoving my hand into his pants, grasping his cock in my hand.

Sherlock groans and pulls me in for another forceful, brutal kiss, our bodies pressed together from lips to groin. His long, clever fingers wrap around mine and force them to release him long enough to press his shaft against my own. Then he twines our joined hands around our cocks, and begins to stroke us together, hard and fast.

It doesn’t take long until we are gasping into each other’s mouths and crying out harsh, wordless shouts of animalistic lust. Suddenly Sherlock goes rigid, and comes over our joined fingers. Seeing that is enough to tip me over the edge after him, and _I’m falling into a spiral of sensation and longing and grief…Sherlock!_

We cling together for a few moments, then the discomfort of our physical position, kneeling on a stony path in Dewer’s Hollow, takes precedence. Slowly, we release each other, readjusting and refastening our trousers so that we can sit, side by side, slumped against the granite outcropping.

As the euphoria of finding Sherlock alive begins to fade, I am feeling increasingly nauseated. He’s alive…and _has_ been all along. So _why_ is this the _first I’m hearing_ about that little fact? What the _hell?_

“Took you long enough to figure out the postcard.”

Sherlock breaks the silence, in typical-bloody-Sherlock fashion, by pointing out my lack of brilliance. No apology, no tears, no sign that he has missed me, no implication that what could only be an elaborately-planned deception has caused him any concern for my emotional wellbeing.

 _Right. That is_ it _._

I leap to my feet, snatch up my muddy jumper from the ground, and pull it on. I retrieve my gun and tuck it into the back of my waistband, then seize my jacket and torch from the muddy ground. I pull my jacket on with quick, rough movements.

“I don’t know what the bloody hell you’re playing at, but you owe me an explanation, Sherlock Holmes, and a fucking apology.”

Sherlock is standing now, attempting to button the ruined tatters of his moss-green shirt, then pulling on his anorak.

“Didn’t you hear the recording on my phone? I know it’s been hard, but this deception was utterly necessary in order to destroy Moriarty’s network.”

“It’s been _hard?_ You sodding _bastard!_ ”

I lunge forward, giving him a hard shove, resolutely squelching any pang of remorse for the look of startled hurt on his face. I shove him again, and he stumbles backward, loses his balance and falls heavily to the ground. He stares up at me in disbelief.

“ _How_ could you put me through that, Sherlock? Did you _ever_ love me?”

“Don’t be an idiot, John. Of _course_ , I love you. Why else would I do all of this?”

_Oh, my God._

_Now he’s going to claim that he did this_ for me?

I can’t do this. I need time to _think_ , to figure out when my life turned into a ridiculous passion play.

“I can’t look at you right now.” I turn sharply, and begin to stalk away.

“John! _John!”_ He pauses, then with a break in his voice, he cries, “John…for God’s sake…you’re the love of my life!”

I stop dead, and stand still for a moment, trying to gain control of my temper. It’s pointless.

Whirling back around, I shout, “And I thought you were mine, Sherlock! But the love of your life doesn’t ‘die’ and use your grief as a pawn in a game!”

He’s scrambling to his feet. “You have the phone – you heard the recording. You _know_ why I had to jump. You know that I had to ‘die’ in order to keep you alive!”

“ _Two and a half months_ , Sherlock!” I’m bellowing at him now, and I can feel my pulse thundering in my temples. “Ten _sodding_ weeks that you let me think you were dead.”

My fists clench at my sides, and I’m breathing like I’ve been running a marathon, fast and uneven. Sherlock stands motionless, his face a rictus of grief.

“Are you telling me that there was _no_ way for you to contact me before _now?_ That in this modern age of instant communication, that you had _no bloody way_ to reach me?”

I stalk back toward him and stop, glaring daggers into him. His pale eyes are bloodshot, red-rimmed and swollen. I feel a ridiculous surge of guilt. _Damn it, why am_ I _feeling guilty?_

“Yes, John.” His voice is rough. “That’s what I’m telling you.”

“Really.” I fold my arms across my chest, feeling my spine straighten even further, my military training unconsciously dictating my posture. “Care to enlighten me? Because I don’t buy it, Sherlock. I think that you got caught up in the game of chasing Moriarty’s network, and didn’t give a _single thought_ to who you had left behind.”

His head snaps up, and I see a trace of the old, familiar arrogance in his stance.

“Of course. Believe the worst of me, like everyone always has. I thought _you_ were different, John. I thought you had faith in me.”

 _Oh, that is_ it _. The last fucking straw._

I lunge forward, fisting both hands in the front of his fawn-coloured anorak, and give him a violent shake.

“Faith in you?” I snarl at him. “ _Faith_ in _you_? You lost any right to _any_ faith I had in you, Sherlock, the minute you _forced me to watch you jump off of the roof of a fucking building_. You made me _watch you die_. Faith in you? You unbelievable _bastard_.”

He allows me to manhandle him, unresisting, his lips set in a tight line.

“I tried, John. I tried to leave you as many clues as I could – I told you that it was a magic trick, I left the recording on my phone, I actually staked out the funeral, planning to find a way to contact you. But you didn’t even _come_.” The hurt he feels at that fact is unmistakable in his voice.

“I didn’t…you don’t even…” I’m having a hell of a time stringing coherent words together, watching him struggling against tears.

_Damn it, don’t go soft, Watson – he needs to know how bad it was._

Still, I find myself softening my voice a bit, easing my angry grip on his jacket.

“You _idiot_ , do you know _why_ I wasn’t at the funeral? Do you know where I _was_ that morning?”

He shakes his head mutely. His skin is so ghostly pale, with dark smudges beneath the great, glistening eyes that stare at me as though I might vanish at any moment.

“The reason I wasn’t there, watching them put an empty box in the ground for that sham of a funeral, Sherlock, was because I was at home, thinking about watching the love of my life shatter his body on the pavement in front of St. Bart’s. I was busy, you see, sitting on our bed, _with the barrel of a gun in my mouth.”_

Sherlock blanches, his already impossibly fair skin abruptly several shades lighter, and he staggers, his knees buckling. I release his jacket to grasp him by the elbows, instinctively easing him to the ground, and find myself kneeling with him. His long, slender fingers clutch at my arms, and I can’t bring myself to push him away.

“John,” he gasps hoarsely, _“John.”_

“I sat there the entire time, Sherlock, and so many nights since, putting the gun in my mouth, then taking it out again, over and over, looking at pictures of us together, thinking about you lying in a pool of blood, remembering your eyes…your _eyes_ …staring up at the sky, empty, _gone_ …”

I can’t continue. I’m sobbing now, collapsing forward into his arms, and we’re clinging to each other like survivors of a shipwreck. I suppose, in a way, that’s what we are.

 

oOoOo

 


	7. This Façade

**Chapter 7: This Façade**

 

oOoOo

**_“Do you think I am trusty and faithful?_ **

**_Do you see no further than this façade—this smooth and tolerant manner of me?_ **

**_Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground toward a real heroic man?_ **

**_Have you no thought, O dreamer, that it may be all maya, illusion?”_ **

**_―_ ** **_Walt Whitman_ **

oOoOo

 

We are still huddled together on the stony, muddy path when the first fat raindrops begin to fall. Abruptly, the skies open, and a deluge of heavy, chilling rain soaks us in seconds. Gasping, we scramble to our feet.

“This way, John.” Sherlock seizes my hand and leads me further into the Hollow, into the mouth of one of the caves. Once we’re inside the mouth of the cave, he releases my hand. I thought it was quite dark outside, but in here it’s absolute, pitch black, and I can’t see anything at all. I’m fumbling in my jacket pocket for my torch, when a warm light flares nearby. Sherlock holds up a small gas lantern.

“Follow me,” he says, and heads further into the cave. He makes an abrupt turn into a low opening to the left, and we are in an ancient mineshaft. There is a small folding camp bed, a spirit stove, and a stack of newspapers, evidence that Sherlock has been here for some time.

“Jesus, Sherlock. Have you been living in a _mineshaft_ for two months?” I can’t believe that he would be willing to stay in such primitive conditions for such an extended period of time.

“No, I’ve only been here since I had Wiggins plant the postcard in your drawer. I had no idea you’d take so long to look in your drawer, John. I’ve been here for eight days this time, which is quite long enough, thanks. I’d sell my brother for a shower.”

Despite my anger, my confusion, the millions of emotions I’m struggling with, I can’t help but giggle a bit at that. _Damn it. You can’t giggle at a time like this._

“You’d sell your brother for a cigarette, Sherlock.”

His lips quirk up into an amused smirk.

“True. Or perhaps a roll of loo paper.”

“God, Sherlock, I don’t even want to _think_ about that statement.”

We look at each other, and suddenly we are giggling like we always have at a shared joke. Sherlock looks at me, with what I’ve always thought of as his _just-for-John_ smile, and he reaches out as if to take me in his arms.

 _No way._ I’m not going to let him sweep the past two months under the rug. I step back, holding up my hand to ward him off.

_“Don’t.”_

Sherlock freezes, then takes a wary step forward.

“John?”

“I need time to think, Sherlock.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, then pass a weary hand over my face. I turn away from his pleading eyes, looking around the horrid makeshift living space as an excuse to avoid meeting his gaze. My eyes fall on a second camp bed, and I feel another surge of fury course through me. He trusted someone else enough to bring them here, to let them in on his plan. _Why couldn’t he trust me?_

Sherlock follows the direction of my glance, and hurriedly speaks.

“The second bed is where Wiggins kipped when she was here. She has been my connection with London, and has kept me supplied every couple of days with food, water…and the occasional takeaway meal from The Cross Keys Inn.”

The hurt and betrayal I feel over his trusting her, instead of _me_ , to take care of his needs, is a gnawing ache in my chest. He sees it, and hesitantly reaches out toward me again.

“John, I would have given anything for you to have been here with me. As soon as it was possible, I sent you a message so that I could meet you.” He steps closer, and tentatively slips his arms around me.

 _God_ , it feels so good to be in his arms again. He’s absolutely filthy, soaking wet and unwashed – but the strength and warmth of his body against mine is blissfully soothing.

 _No_.

I need to set some boundaries here, and establish a safe distance to sort out my feelings about what he has put me through these last months. I can’t allow myself to use my heart instead of my head – look where that’s gotten me so far.

“I can’t, Sherlock.” I gently unwrap his arms from my waist, pushing him away with a firm hand against his _(far too bony)_ sternum. His moonstone eyes gaze yearningly into mine, but I make myself stand firm.

“I’m going to need some time to think about things, Sherlock. I’m feeling so many conflicting emotions right now, and I’ll need time to sort through them.”

He steps back, his face shuttering, the old, arrogant mask dropping down over his features. My heart lurches when I see that closed, blank expression on his face.

“Until less than an hour ago, I thought you were dead. Then I found out that it was all a game, and I was only a pawn in it. That’s a lot to process.”

The mask slips, replaced by hurt, anger…and longing.

“John, if there had been any other way, any at all, I would have done it.” His eyes flash with his anguished frustration. “Moriarty had snipers under orders to kill you if I didn’t kill myself. If I hadn’t made it look convincing, you would be dead. Even after Moriarty died, even after I jumped, if I had suddenly turned up, you would have been targeted immediately. I had to keep you safe. The only way to do that was take down the organisation itself. Then I would be free to come back to you.”

“I would have followed you anywhere, Sherlock. I would have given up everything for you. How could you have so little regard for me?”

 _“Little regard?”_ Sherlock gasps. “John, how could you _possibly_ think…I have more ‘regard’ and respect for you than for the rest of the population of London combined. Surely you know this.”

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger.

“Sherlock, please understand. I hear what you are saying. I know that you feel that the only way to handle this was to keep me in the dark. What you need to realise is that you didn’t treat me as an equal, as a partner. You didn’t allow me to make the decision for myself.”

I take in a long, steadying breath, then add, “I need to sort through what that means to me, to our relationship.”

“What does that mean, John?” His eyes are begging for a sign of forgiveness.

“It means that I need time, Sherlock. Time to consider whether this relationship is salvageable. Whether I can ever trust you again.”

Sherlock is silent, but his eyes speak volumes. How the world can believe that this man is emotionless is a mystery to me. The love and longing written so clearly on his face causes a sharp twinge in my chest.

“Sherlock, you are, without doubt, the best thing that ever happened to me...” I pause, as I see the beginnings of his _just-for-John_ smile start to creep across his face. I hesitate, knowing that the rest of my statement will wipe that smile away.

_Damn it. I have to say it – he has to know._

“…But you are also the cause of the worst pain and heartache of my entire life.”

He looks shattered, but tries to cover with a wry attempt at a smile, quipping, “And you invaded Afghanistan.”

He has chosen those words deliberately, a ghost of the words spoken our first night together, before we knew everything we would become. I feel sick with the strength of my longing to go back to the time before his fall, back when all I could see before us was potential joy, not a road to further pain and destruction.

 

oOoOo

 

We sit in silence on the two camp beds, waiting for the rain to die down. Despite the fact that Sherlock has lit the little spirit stove, it’s horribly damp and cold. I can’t believe that Sherlock has been living like this.

“How could you stand to stay here?” I ask him, breaking the silence. “You’re always cold, you wear long sleeves in the summertime. How could you bear it?”

“You forget, John, that I haven’t always lived a life of luxury. How did you think I met so many of the people in my homeless network?”

“You met them when you lived on the street?”

“Some of them, yes. Others I’ve met over the years, most of them through Wiggins.” Sherlock shifted back on the narrow cot, folding his legs up against him, so that his arms wrapped around his shins, and his chin rested on his knees. “She has been an indispensible part of my homeless network for over a decade.”

“She’s been a part of your homeless network for over a decade? How is that possible? She can’t be older than twenty!”

“She’s probably closer to twenty-two, actually; but yes, I first met Wiggins when we were both sleeping rough, when I was only a little older than the age she is now.”

I knew Sherlock had spent some time on the street, heavily addicted to cocaine, after he left university. I had tried not to think about that younger Sherlock, so broken and damaged by drug addiction, and the violently abusive relationship* that had led him to drugs in the first place. Still, the idea of Wiggins as a young girl, living homeless on the streets of London, is even more horrific.

“What is her first name?” I ask, finding that I want to know more about this person who had always been so far in the background for me in the past.

“I’ve no idea, actually. I’m not sure she knows any more, either. Wiggins was not her surname, for that matter – she has always been very careful to keep any information that might get back to her family to herself.”

“Why?”

“She ran away from…an unthinkable home situation, John. Kipping under bridges and eating out of bins was an idyllic escape from the life she led before.” I shudder at the vague reply, my imagination unhelpfully filling in some of the possible scenarios she might have escaped.

“I noticed her bright mind and her ability to pick up information, and used her skills to my advantage. I was able to give her a bit of protection, and as time went on, she was able to assist me in connecting with others who could gather information for investigations.” His silver eyes meet mine.

“And before you ask, I _did_ try to help her to get off the street, but she wanted no part of it. Wiggins is a bit like a feral cat, I think. She still looks like the rest of us, but has reverted to the wild type. She is unwilling to allow others to domesticate her. So I do what I can – pay her enough to allow her to eat well and afford shelter in inclement weather, and provide her with a sort of unofficial protection. She would refuse anything more.”

“It’s a sad story.”

 “Perhaps, John. There are thousands of sad stories living on the streets. Hers is hardly unique.”

“Still, to be homeless, as a child, alone on the streets of London. It’s unthinkable.”

“I don’t know, John. If it hadn’t been for London, Wiggins wouldn’t be alive now. If she had grown up here,” he gestures vaguely back toward the cave opening, and presumably to Dartmoor beyond, “she would have been trapped, isolated, unable to escape her situation. London provided her with the means for liberty, and sheltered her. Wiggins isn’t homeless – London _is_ her home.”

I shudder at the thought of her plight…then shudder again. And again. I belatedly realise that I’m _shivering_. We’re both soaked to the skin, and the cave is damp and cold. I look at Sherlock, and notice that his lips are quite pale, with a decidedly bluish hue. The doctor in me recognises that we both need to get into dry clothes, or risk hypothermia.

“Come on.” I stand up abruptly, and head for the cave mouth. Sherlock extinguishes the spirit stove, and then follows me. To my relief, the rain has died down to a misty drizzle.

“You’re coming with me to the inn,” I tell him. I half expect some sort of argument, but he simply nods acceptance. I pull out my torch, and Sherlock follows with his lantern. We follow the path to the road where I left my hire car. Sherlock wordlessly climbs into the passenger seat, and I drive us back to The Cross Keys Inn.

 

oOoOo

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to skyfullofstars for helping me to find my way out of the weeds, and to all of the tumblr peeps who encouraged me when I was struggling with this chapter. You guys are wonderful.


	8. Unfed Hope

**Chapter 8: Unfed Hope**

 

oOoOo

**_“What we call despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope.”_ **

**_―_ ** **_George Eliot_ **

oOoOo

 

It is quite late when we arrive at the inn, and no one is in the car park. As we climb from the hire car, I look ruefully at the wet, muddy stains on the upholstery. _There goes my cleaning deposit._

We slip into the deserted entryway, and quickly make our way upstairs, to room 221. Sherlock smiles when he sees the room number.

“Remember when we stayed in this room before?” He’s reaching for me again, as I open the door. I deliberately step out of his reach, then hold the door open for him to enter. His hands drop to his sides, and he silently steps into the room, standing respectfully away from me. I close the door, and turn to face him.

“Sherlock, we still have a _lot_ to talk about, and then I’m going to need to make some decisions about us.” He looks startled, and his eyebrows furrow with worry. I press on, keeping my voice as calm as possible.

“But right now, what we both need, more than anything, is a hot shower, some tea, and some rest. So why don’t you take the first shower, while I see what I can find for you to wear.”

“Will you…” he swallows, then whispers, “would you join me?”

_Sherlock’s water-slick chest pressed to my back, soapy hands reaching around to assiduously lather the front of my body from head to toe…_

_No._ Not yet.

_Maybe not ever._

I shake my head in refusal, trying not to see how his body sags from disappointment and rejection.

“You go ahead. I’ll go sort out tea and clothes.”

I force myself to look away from those luminous eyes, so filled with disappointment and desolation. My heart aches from the effort of resisting the urge to take him in my arms and snog him senseless.

_Tea. Clothes. Right._

I remember from our past visits that the inn has a tiny laundry room with a single, coin-operated washer-dryer unit. I rummage through my bag, pulling out my striped dressing gown and a clean pair of boxer briefs. Once I hear the shower running, I slip in to leave the dressing gown and pants for Sherlock, and scoop up his filthy clothing from the bathroom floor. Sherlock’s silhouette behind the shower curtain is so tantalising, bringing sensual memories to the surface.

_Wet skin sliding slickly against my own, long, graceful fingers sliding down my back, his warm, wet mouth working its way down from my collarbone to points further south…_

I resolutely turn away, and head down the corridor to the laundry room. After tossing the grimy items into the washer, I realise that I’ll need laundry soap, and so I head for reception.

Gary is poring over a ledger at the desk, and looks up with his cheery smile when I walk in.

“Ah, good evening, John. What can I do for you tonight?”

“I got rather muddy tonight, Gary, hiking through the woods, and I need to wash a few things. Do you sell laundry soap?”

“Aye, we have packets for sale.” He lifts one from a shelf behind him, and hands it to me. “I’ll just add it to your room, shall I?”

“That would be marvelous, Gary, ta very much.” I turn to return to the laundry, then suddenly swivel back toward Gary, with a brilliant idea for avoiding some of the awkwardness tonight.

“Something else, John?”

“Actually, I’m going to need a second room, if you don’t mind. My…ermm…that is, a friend arrived unexpectedly this evening.”

Gary’s genial face sags into tragic lines, as though he’s going to have to deliver news of a death.

“We’re booked up solid, John. Not an empty room to be had. Can your friend share with you tonight? We might have a vacancy in the morning.”

I knew that solution was too easy.

“It will be fine, Gary,” I smile. “I just thought I’d ask.”

“John, I hope you don’t mind my saying so,” Gary still looks apologetic, “but you should get some rest. You look dreadfully peaky. When you walked in just now, you were so pale and wan, you looked like you’d seen a ghost.”

_He’s not exactly wrong, is he?_

“I’ll be fine, Gary. I’ll get to bed as soon as I get the washing done.”

“All right. Good night, John.”

“Good night.”

 

oOoOo

 

Laundry started, I stop at the little tea station in the conservatory to make two cups of tea. Black, two sugars for Sherlock; milk, no sugar for me. I pick up a packet of Jaffa cakes as well, hoping to get some calories into Sherlock. Remembering the prominence of his ribs under my fingers _(don’t think about his skin under my hands, don’t go there, Watson)_ I take a packet of Hobnobs as well.

When I return to the room, I find Sherlock, swathed in my dressing gown, which is far too short for him, really – it makes his legs look ridiculously long. He stands by the window, gazing out into the dark. Turning eagerly toward me, he takes a tentative step in my direction.

I offer him his tea, as well as the packet of Jaffa cakes. His fingers brush mine lingeringly as he takes the cup, and a shiver of longing courses through me.

_No. Head, not heart, remember?_

The hot tea only serves to remind me how chilled I am. I gulp it down, then pull some clean clothes from my bag.

“I’m going to get a shower,” I tell Sherlock. “You should go ahead and get some sleep.”

He looks…almost timid.

“Here?” He gestures toward the large bed.

“Yes, here.” I am too tired to have things out tonight. All I want is to take a shower, warm up, and get some sleep. I’m wrecked, and I know he is, too. And it’s not as if we have another option – there’s no other room available.

Besides, if I wake up alone, how will I know it wasn’t another dream?

 

oOoOo

 

The shower is wonderful, and I stand there for ages, letting the hot spray wash away some of the tension from my back and shoulders. I make a conscious effort not to think about Sherlock being in here, hot water sluicing over his naked body. By the time I’ve dried off, dressed, and brushed my teeth, the bedroom light is out.

I still need to dry Sherlock’s clothes. As I slip from the bathroom to the door, I look over at the bed, and see that Sherlock is sound asleep, curled into a tight ball under the duvet. The sight is arresting – Sherlock has always slept in a loose, boneless sprawl, taking up the majority of any bed he occupies. To see him like this is heartbreaking, for reasons I can’t quite articulate.

When I pull out the clothes to move them to the dryer, I can’t help studying them. The only things that Sherlock ever wears that aren’t perfectly tailored are the pyjama trousers and soft t-shirts that he sleeps in. Now I’m folding a worn pair of ridiculously baggy, denim cargo pants, a thick, shapeless, button-up shirt in moss green, an oatmeal-coloured t-shirt and thick wool socks. It’s almost harder to reconcile these clothes with the man I love than it was to accept the ginger hair and patchy beard.

The only item of clothing in here that says _Sherlock_ to me is the pair of blue silk boxers. I remember a conversation with Sherlock about his reason for wearing such ridiculously expensive pants. It was before we made the shift from friends and flatmates to lovers, and I was sorting through my laundry in preparation for washing.

_“Sherlock, do you have any clothes to be washed?” I know he doesn’t wash many clothes, as much of his laundry is dry-cleaned, but everyone wears underwear and socks. I might as well throw a few things in to complete this load._

_Sherlock glances up from his microscope._

_“Hmm? Oh, yes, I have a few things in my laundry hamper.”_

_I wait for a moment, thinking he’ll retrieve them for me, then sigh and go into his room. As I pull out the scant armful of pants and socks, I wonder when our relationship became one where I’m perfectly okay with handling another bloke’s dirty underwear._

_As I toss them into the basket with my things, I notice that his boxers all seem to be silk._

_“Oi! Sherlock! You should have told me that these were silk – I almost threw them in the wash!”_

_He doesn’t even spare me a glance this time._

_“Don’t be ridiculous, John. Those are washable silk. Just pull them out of the washer before you move everything to the dryer – machine drying is hell on silk. I’ll hang them up to dry in my room as usual.”_

_“That’s_ ridiculous _, Sherlock. Why would you go to so much effort on a pair of pants? Why not just wear cotton?”_

_Sherlock sighs, sits back from his microscope, and steeples his fingers beneath his chin. He is silent long enough that I assume the conversation is over, and I pick up the basket of laundry to carry downstairs to the washer. When he speaks, it startles me._

_“I’m sure you’ve noticed before that I’m extremely sensitive to textures, John. I have a hard time tolerating tight elastic around my waist, or rough cotton against…well, sensitive areas. It’s very distracting for me, like having insects crawling on my skin. It’s the reason I wear my t-shirts inside out – the seams are too harsh to tolerate. Silk boxers decrease that issue for me. It’s not ridiculous to me. It’s worth the money to avoid distraction.” He looks back down at his microscope, making it clear that the conversation is over._

_I feel slightly ashamed of not connecting Sherlock’s avoidance of touch (the gloves, the coat, the distance he puts between himself and almost everyone else) with a hypersensitive reaction to textures. Somehow, I am moved that he has trusted me enough to tell me the reason for this eccentricity. I carry the laundry downstairs, and later, I am careful to separate out the silk items when I transfer everything to the dryer._

Now, I find myself smiling wistfully as I remove the silk boxers from the laundry before starting the dryer. I drape them to dry while the rest of the clothes go in the dryer.

 

Because I want to let Sherlock sleep, I wait in the deserted conservatory until the dryer cycle is complete. I find a copy of the Dartmouth Chronicle, and glance over it, skimming through the local news. “ _Local Group Fights To Preserve Historic Church.” “Residents Vote To Increase Technology In Schools.” “Local Groups Row Over Access To Lighthouse Beach.”_ Not very scintillating stuff – it doesn’t do much to keep me distracted from thoughts of the man asleep in my bed, just down the corridor. Fortunately, the load of laundry is small enough that it dries fairly quickly.

Once I’ve folded and made a tidy stack of the clothing, as well as folding the newspaper, I’m out of excuses, and out of energy as well. Wearily, I return to room 221, and a bed that holds what I’d have given anything to see again.

That’s the thought that is running through my mind as I change into pyjamas and slip under the duvet. As I lie there, looking at Sherlock’s sleeping face, rendered even more unearthly than usual by the watery moonlight falling over it, I think about how desperately I had longed to see him once more, to hold him, to kiss him, to have him back.

Propping up on one elbow, I study that beautiful face, a face I never thought I would see again. A wayward curl stands out from his fringe, casting a shadow across his cheekbone. I reach out to smooth the lock of hair back down so that the light can fall on his face unhindered. The scruffy beard doesn’t do much to camouflage the exquisite line of his jaw. As I draw my hand back, I fight the urge to stroke along it and feel the texture.

I can’t believe he’s really here, in my bed, close enough to touch. _God_ , I want to touch him. As I lie there watching him, feeling so very conflicted, he begins to moan in his sleep, and tosses his head from side to side.

 _“No,”_ he groans. “No, not John…no, John…don’t go…John, _please_ …”

 _Sod this._ My willpower is shot for the night, and the man that I love more than my own life is crying my name in his sleep. _Fuck_ willpower – I can sort out my feelings tomorrow. I’m only human.

“Sssshhh, Sherlock, I’m here,” I murmur in his ear, as I slip my arms around him and pull him close. His long limbs twine around mine. I’m surrounded by the warmth and scent of my Sherlock, and it’s like coming home.

I know that I should sleep, but I’m afraid to close my eyes, afraid that I’ll wake up to find that this has all been just a dream. I think about how often I told myself that, if I could go back and do things _right_ , then I could somehow have kept him alive, and would hold onto him, never letting go again.

So why can’t I just forgive him, and give in to what we both desperately want?

Filled with a tumult of heartbreak, joy, despair, love, and longing, I feel my body finally succumb to the bone-crushing exhaustion, and I sink into oblivion.

 

oOoOo

 

_*See “Song of Sherlock” and “My Brother’s Keeper” for further backstory._

 


	9. If You Love

oOoOo

 

**Chapter 9: If You Love**

 

oOoOo

**_“Love is whatever you can still betray._ **

**_Betrayal can only happen if you love.”_ **

**_–  John LeCarre_ **

oOoOo

 

 

Warm sunlight spills across the bed, gently bringing me out of a deep, restful sleep. Drowsily, I automatically reach across the bed, groping for the warm, pliant form that is curled against me. Long, achingly familiar limbs twine around me, and I drift back off, cocooned and secure.

 

oOoOo

 

I wake again to soft lips pressing a line of kisses down the back of my neck, and a warm body pressed against my back, arms wrapped close around me. I automatically arch back into Sherlock’s embrace…

 _Sherlock’s_ embrace.

_Sherlock!_

The events of the night before slam into me, and a bizarre combination of joy and the ache of betrayal burns into my chest. Abruptly, I pull away, sit up and swing my legs out of bed.

“John?”

I turn my head to see a lightly bearded, ginger-haired Sherlock propped up on one elbow, his gorgeous seaglass eyes studying me. He smiles softly.

“Good morning.”

The pain in my chest intensifies, and I can feel my heart working overtime, beating like a trip-hammer. I need air. I have to get out of here. I rise, reach for my discarded trousers and shirt, and dress hastily.

“John?” His voice is so uncertain, so…un-Sherlock.

I turn around and look into pale eyes that are filled with anxiety. _Damn_. I can’t just run out on him. We have to talk. I force a smile onto my face.

“Coffee?”

“All right…” Sherlock sits up. The duvet slips down to his waist as he turns to swing his legs out of the bed, revealing his bare torso. I saw him last night, and felt his ribs with my hands, but this is my first glimpse of him in the cold light of day.

I am _horrified_.

Sherlock has never been a beefy guy, but his body has always been overlaid with plenty of strong, whipcord muscle. I remember mentally comparing him to Leonardo’s Vitruvian Man, the first time I saw him undressed.

Now, his ribs protrude so far that I would have no difficulty counting them by sight alone. His clavicle stands out to a painful degree, and his scapulae jut like wings from his back. Before the fall, his body weight was probably about 75kg. I sincerely doubt that the man in front of me would tip the scales at more than 60kg. Fading bruises and a few new scars stand out against the too-pale skin.

“ _Jesus_ , Sherlock.” The doctor in me takes over, and I step in front of him to look more closely, my hands grasping his bony shoulders. “Have you eaten _anything_ in the last ten weeks? How could you do this to yourself?”

Sherlock’s hands reach up to cover my hands on his shoulders, and he gently puts me away from him. He tugs on my dressing gown, wraps it tightly around himself. It’s far too short for his long legs, too large everywhere else. Spotting the neat stack of clean clothing that I left on the chair by the bed, he rises and picks them up, turning toward the bathroom. He pauses for a moment.

“Thank you for washing these, John,” he says, not looking at me. “After I’m showered and dressed, I believe you mentioned coffee?”

“Not _just_ coffee, Sherlock. After seeing how thin you are, we’re having a big breakfast – and you _will_ eat every bite.”

A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and he replies, softly, “Yes, doctor.”

 

oOoOo

 

As Sherlock is still keeping a low profile, I order room service – two full English breakfasts. When the food arrives, Sherlock is still in the shower, so I set out our plates on the small table under the window.

I tap on the bathroom door. “Sherlock? Breakfast is here.”

A few minutes later, Sherlock steps out of the bathroom, and my breath catches in my throat. He has borrowed my electric razor, and removed the horrid, patchy beard.  The sight of the achingly familiar angles and planes of his beautiful, beautiful face causes an actual, physical pang in my chest. His silver sloe eyes meet mine, and he steps forward, closing the distance between us.

Wordlessly, he raises a hand to caress my cheek, then cups the line of my jaw. He leans down to softly brush my lips with his in a feathery-soft kiss. His lips part, the tip of his tongue lightly traces my lips. I gasp, and he takes the opportunity to tease his tongue into my mouth.

I know that this is a bad idea. _Head, not heart._ However, my traitorous fingers have somehow made their way to the nape of his neck, where they twine into the close-cropped ginger curls. I pull him closer, deepening the kiss, lost in the wave of sensation. His warm arms wrap around me, his long, clever fingers running across my back.

 _Oh, God, I’ve missed him_ so _much._

Random images flit through my mind, remembered _moments of bliss, lying twined together in our bed, racing across London rooftops, Sherlock’s head in my lap as we watch telly, laughing together as we leave a crime scene, eating out of the same takeaway container and bickering over who ate more of the good bits, making love in a beam of morning sunlight that slants across our bed, walking companionably hand-in-hand as we leave Bart’s pathology building…_

_…Sherlock lying on the pavement outside St. Bart’s, his pale, sightless gaze staring up at the grey sky through a mask of blood._

As mood-killers go, that one is pretty impressive.

I press my hands against Sherlock’s chest, gently pushing him away, breaking the kiss. He seizes my hand as I step back, and worried eyes meet mine, the longing in them perfectly clear. I squeeze his hand, then release it and turn toward the table, clearing my throat and trying to keep my voice steady.

“Food’s getting cold.”

I sit at the little table and gesture for him to join me. Sherlock sits down, warily eyeing the vegan version of a full English. The chef has certainly made an effort, and I must say that the soy sausages are quite surprisingly good. I tuck into my own meal, after first shoving what looks like a tofu scramble to one side. I note that Sherlock doing the same thing, and we smile at each other.

Eventually, I notice that Sherlock isn’t so much eating as poking moodily at his food, and I lean across the table to point sternly at him with my fork.

“ _Eat_ , Sherlock. I _am_ going to get calories into you, you infuriating man, if I have to hold you down and stuff it down your throat like a _foie gras_ goose.”

To my surprise, Sherlock picks up his fork and proceeds to eat everything but the tofu scramble (I can hardly say anything about that, since I couldn’t stomach it either). Seeing Sherlock this amenable is disconcerting – he normally resists my efforts to feed him as if it were a competition.

We finish our meal in silence, then Sherlock rises from his chair.

“I should really retrieve my things from Dewer’s Hollow before we return to London, John.”

“Return to London?” I blink at him in surprise. “You’re going to come out of hiding?”

“I’ve destroyed Moriarty’s network, John, save one individual. This man knows that I’m alive. There is nothing to be gained in avoiding him. I will return to London, he _will_ come after me, and you and I will set a trap to catch him and end this, once and for all.”

“Who is he?”

“I’ll tell you about him on the drive back to London, John. It’s a long story.”

He steps over to me, and reaches for my hand.

“Before we go, though…” he pulls me closer to him, “…I _was_ hoping that we could take a little time to…celebrate…being together once more.” His arms slip around my waist, and it would be so easy, so _very_ easy, to let him take me to bed, to let him soothe and kiss and stroke my pain away.

_Head, not heart._

He feels the stiffening of my posture, and releases his hold on me, stepping back. His glaucous eyes gaze into mine, searching for forgiveness. I can’t give him what he seeks – I’m just not there, yet. But, the way it felt to wake up in his arms this morning…maybe I’m not as far away from forgiveness as I thought.

I turn to pick up my bag, then head into the bathroom.

“I’ll get a quick shower, then, and we’ll make tracks for London.”

Behind me, Sherlock sighs.

“Whatever you say, John.”

oOoOo

Fortunately, our room is at the end of the corridor, and Sherlock is able to slip down the stairs and out the side door without being seen. I take the key to the front desk and check out, grateful that I do not recognise the young man on the early shift. Good – no awkward conversation. I settle the bill, then stride behind the inn, to find Sherlock irritably brushing dried mud from the passenger seat.

“Honestly, John, your hire car is filthy,” he mutters.

“I can’t imagine how that happened, Sherlock,” I reply, rolling my eyes at him. He’s been living in a _mineshaft_ for over a week, with no access to running water. Two showers later, and he’s as fastidious as a cat again.

“Wasn’t that way before a certain muddy consulting detective sat there last night.”

I hear an irritable snort as my companion folds himself into the seat beside me.

The drive to the path that leads to Dewer’s Hollow isn’t far. I pull off in the little lay-by, and we climb out to begin our trek to the Hollow. It’s a beautiful morning, clear and sunny, and if it weren’t for the mud on the path, you would never guess that it had been raining stair rods last night. I follow Sherlock along the narrow path, drinking in the _reality_ of his existence. Even the odd ginger locks seem amazing at the moment.

When we reach the woods, the path widens, and Sherlock drops back to walk beside me, bumping my shoulder with his own in his old, habitual way. As we stroll along the path, admiring the shafts of sunlight that break through the green canopy above, Sherlock casually takes my hand.

A burst of warmth floods through me. Despite the stern lecture from the thinking part of my brain, the overwhelming need to touch the man I love wins out. I don’t pull away. Instead, I squeeze his hand, then interlace our fingers. We walk the rest of the way to Dewer’s Hollow in silence, enjoying the tentative accord between us.

oOoOo

“What about the rest of the stuff?”

Back in Sherlock’s hideout, I am startled when Sherlock collects a couple of books, a rucksack full of papers, and a few other odds and ends, then announces he is ready to leave. I glance around at the camp beds, the spirit stove, the little gas lantern. It seems incredibly wasteful to leave them here, when they are practically new.

Sherlock looks thoughtful. “I’ll probably give a lot of it to Wiggins – if she can’t use it, I’m certain she’ll know someone who can.”

I look at him, baffled. “So… _why_ exactly are we leaving it all _here_ , then?”

Sherlock snorts. “I can have Mycroft send one of his minions for the rest of it later. He owes me one.”

 _Mycroft_.

 _Jesus_. I hadn’t even _thought_ about Mycroft. He needs to be told that his brother is alive and well, and has apparently dismantled most of a crime web in the last two months.

“He may not be interested in helping you out, once he gets over the shock of finding out you’re alive. He’ll probably be _quite_ pissed.”

“Oh, he knows,” Sherlock shrugs. “If he’s pissed, it will be at how far over budget I went while I was in Hong Kong. He never has understood that sometimes large bribes are necessary – how else was I to gather data?”

Shocked speechless at this revelation, I stand motionless. Mycroft _knows?_ He knows…yet _he allowed me to struggle with grief over the loss of his brother, who apparently had gone over budget on his bribes?_

My world tilts on its axis – for the second time in 12 hours.

Sherlock rambles on, something about the difficulty of bribing ICAC officials, when he finally notices that his audience of one has gone missing.

“John? What’s wrong?”

I lift my eyes to meet his, and he actually takes a step back when he meets my gaze, I can only assume from the utter fury he sees in my eyes. I clench my jaw and step forward to close the distance between us, my spine locking automatically into a military stance.

“Mycroft _knows_.” It’s not a question, but it’s clear that I’m seeking – scratch that, _demanding_ – confirmation.

“It was necessary for Mycroft to know. I needed immediate access to an ongoing supply of funds, weapons and information. I had no choice but to take Mycroft into my confidence. There was no other way to accomplish my goals.” He eyes me warily. “What _is_ it, John?”

“Mycroft has been in touch with me constantly, Sherlock,” I bite out. “He has been oh, so _solicitous_ during my ‘time of loss.’ And nowhere during that time did he happen to mention that you were not six feet under. He’s _been there_ , all the time. He executed your will, left me your trust fund – and we’re going to have a conversation about _that_ little item later – and your Stradivarius. He took the violin away to keep it in secure storage.”

“Errr…” Sherlock seems incredibly uncomfortable, scratching at the back of his neck anxiously, then fiddling with the two remaining buttons on his shirt, unable to meet my eyes.

_“What?”_

“I have the Strad.” He steps further back in the mineshaft, returning with a familiar violin case. “Mycroft used that as an excuse to get it for me. Sometimes I simply can’t think properly without playing. He had his assistant bring it to me in Moscow. This violin has seen far too many hotel rooms in the last few weeks. I couldn’t play it here, of course – wouldn’t do to start a new legend about a haunted Dewer’s Hollow, would it?”

He smiles playfully, as if he and Mycroft haven’t been playing me for a fool for _months_.

Sometimes Sherlock can be so spectacularly clueless – he seems genuinely surprised at my fury over his conspiracy with Mycroft to keep me ignorant. It’s as if, since _he_ knew what was really going on, everyone else should simply fall in line with his plans, and leave pesky emotions out of the mix.

Fists clenched, spine ramrod-straight, I hiss out, “You are both absolute _bastards_.”

Turning sharply, I stalk from the cave, moving briskly up the path out of the Hollow. I hear Sherlock’s hasty steps behind me.

 _“John!_ John, _wait!”_

_I think not._

Never breaking my stride, I stalk back to the parked car. Sherlock follows at a safe distance, and climbs into the passenger seat. He sits in silence, twiddling with something in his jacket pocket. I know he’s waiting for me to speak, but I can’t.

Turns out, the drive back to London _can_ seem like forever, even if I’m _not_ alone in the car this time.

 

oOoOo

 


	10. Suffering is Optional

oOoOo

 

**Chapter 10: Suffering is Optional**

 

oOoOo

**_“Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.”_ **

**_―_ ** **_Buddhist proverb_ **

oOoOo

 

The heavy silence lasts for over two hours on the long drive back to London, the tension between us almost palpable. Then, it seems to dissipate, and I risk a quick glance at Sherlock out of the corner of my eye.

He’s asleep.

More than anything else that has happened so far, this tells me how exhausted he truly is from the past weeks. Normally, Sherlock is either a whirlwind of action, or a meditative, coiled bundle of potential energy. Traveling with him can be great fun, if he’s in a talkative mood, but the restlessness that is his hallmark can make it a bit trying at times. He almost vibrates, like a greyhound anticipating the lure.

Not today. Lulled by the rhythm of the tyres on the motorway, Sherlock has sagged sideways, facing me, his right cheek resting against the back of the seat. The keen eyes are closed, and dusky lashes rest on his pale cheekbones.  I resist an urge to reach over and touch his lips, so soft and childlike in their repose.

Instead, I pick up Sherlock’s iPod, plug it into the dock in the console and press play, not even bothering to check what songs are on it. I just need a distraction from the tumult of my thoughts. To my amazement, _“I Can’t Help Myself”_ by The Four Tops rolls out of the speakers.

This _is_ a surprise. Sherlock has always been so scornful of any music that isn’t classical, and turned his nose up at the Motown sound, my favorite musical style. When Marvin Gaye’s smooth tenor exhorts me to consider his plea in _“Let’s Get It On,”_ I’m even more surprised. And then…

_“At last…my love has come along, my lonely days are over, and life is like a song…”_

When the opening strains of Etta James’ _“At Last”_ begin, I finally reach over and flick the screen of the iPod back to see the name of the playlist.

The list is titled, “John.”

_Oh._

The idea that he has been listening to my favorite music, and the most romantic ones to boot, makes something squeeze painfully in my chest. Impulsively, I reach out, cover his hand with mine and relax back into my seat, as Etta’s voice surrounds me like warm honey.

_“You smiled, you smiled; oh, and then the spell was cast…and here we are in heaven, for you are mine…at last…”_

 

oOoOo

 

“She’s 75 years old, Sherlock, and her blood pressure can be bit dodgy at times. You will _not_ give her a heart attack by springing this on her like you did to me.”

We’ve managed to find a parking space for the hire car on Malcolme Street, just around the corner from 221B Baker Street. Sherlock, finally awake and alert, leaps from the car, fully intent on revealing his status of being among the living to Mrs. Hudson as soon as possible.

“She needs to know, John! Now that I’m coming out of hiding, I fully expect to be a target for a sniper. She’ll need to take precautions if she’s to stay in the house.”

“That may be, Sherlock, but…” my brain finally catches up to what he just said. “A sniper?” I find myself glancing around sharply, scanning surrounding rooftops for the flash of light reflecting from a spotting scope or rifle sight.

“Yes, John. I was going to tell you all about our last target, who also regards me as a target. Then we…had a disagreement…so the opportunity to tell you during the drive back was lost.” Sherlock huffs in annoyance.

“Well, once we’re in the flat, and have _drawn the bloody curtains_ , you will tell me all about it, Sherlock. Everything, do you hear?” I snatch our bags from the boot, then hustle Sherlock toward the flat, eager to get him safely indoors as soon as possible.

 “But first, Sherlock, we need to break the news to Mrs. Hudson, and you are _not_ going to frighten her to death.” I open the door, ushering him in, and drop the bags in the foyer. I nudge him toward the stairs. “Go on upstairs and close the drapes. Let me talk to her first.”

Sherlock snorts, but obediently continues up the stairs, as I knock on the door to 221A. Mrs. Hudson opens it a moment later, clutching a feather duster in one hand.

“John!” Her cry of delight at my unexpected appearance sends a pang through me – if I hadn’t found that postcard a few days ago, this kind woman would have been one of the few people likely to attend my funeral. Guilt surges through me for condemning Sherlock for putting me through his “suicide,” when I had intended to do the same thing to Mrs. Hudson. I return her eager hug, and follow her into her sitting room. (I’m relieved to note that all of her draperies are already closed.)

“What brings you back to the flat, John? Are you considering moving back in?”

“Mrs. Hudson…” I break off, unsure of how to break the news gently. I gesture toward the flowered settee. “Would you mind? I really think you need to sit down for this.”

Wearing a perplexed expression, she sits down, pulling me down beside her.

“John, dear, what’s this about?”

_Here goes._

“Mrs. Hudson…I don’t even know how to…” I trail off, looking at her kindly, puzzled smile, take a deep breath, and blurt out, “Sherlock’s not dead.”

Her face falls and her shoulders sag a bit. “Oh, _John_.” She reaches out to give me the usual, comforting, motherly pats that she has bestowed on me for the last 10 weeks.

She doesn’t believe me.

“It’s true, Mrs. Hudson, I haven’t gone ‘round the bend. Sherlock is alive.” I rush on, pushing past her obvious disbelief. “He faked his death, so that he could go underground and take out Moriarty’s network.”

Her face slowly changes, becoming crushed and betrayed.

“And you…you _knew_ this, John? How could you – ” 

“No. _No_. I…” I swallow hard around the lump in my throat. “I thought it was true. I fell for it. No, I _swear_ I would have told you if I’d known. I would never have done that to you.”

“But he did it to _you_.” Her expression darkens, her knuckles tightening on the handle of the forgotten feather duster, still clutched in her hand.

“Where is he now?”

“Upstairs, but maybe you should…wait until you’ve had…some time…” I trail off. She’s long gone, rushing upstairs at an impressive rate for a 75-year-old with a dodgy hip. I scramble to my feet and follow her up the stairs.

When I arrive on the landing, I see Sherlock standing, his ridiculous ginger hair glowing under the main light of the sitting room, his arms awkwardly wrapped around the tiny form of our landlady. She is mumbling something unintelligible into his chest, squeezing him so tightly that he winces.

Then she pulls back from the embrace, and whacks him _hard_ across the side of his head with the feather duster that is still clutched in her hand.

Sherlock recoils a step, looking as though he has suddenly been bitten to death by a fluffy, baby bunny. Mrs. Hudson strikes him again and again, across the ear, around his head and shoulders. She is shouting at him, her face flushed with rage.

“How could you _do_ that to us, Sherlock?  How _could_ you do that to _John_? Do you have any _idea_ what the poor boy has been through because of you? If you knew how many times I worried that the next time I walked into this flat I’d be finding John’s _body_ , dead by his own hand? You absolutely _destroyed_ him, Sherlock! _How_ could you _do_ such a thing?”

_Whack! Whack! Whack!_

Sherlock reels back, trying to escape the unexpected, feathery assault. She has driven him backward across the room, and so he doesn’t see the round side table by my chair. His legs have no trouble finding it, though.

Arms pinwheeling wildly, he falls backward over the table and into the cupboards behind it, taking out the standing lamp, the table, and the lucky cat statue I gave him for Christmas. He lies there amidst the wreckage, blinking, and Mrs. Hudson and I are both frozen, almost as stunned as he is. There is a moment of silence, then Mrs. Hudson bursts into tears and storms out of the flat.

I’m finally snapped out of my shock, and I hurry over to check him for injuries. He has quite a goose-egg on the back of his head, but he seems to be all right. The lucky cat is a write-off, though.

“Are you okay, Sherlock?”

He shakes his head in amazement, saying, “I’ve just spent more than two months chasing down some of the most dangerous criminals in the world. I’ve fought violent thugs and assassins, and brought down megalomaniacs. And I get taken out by septuagenarian wielding a feather duster.” He rubs his head ruefully. “Why a feather duster? Not a conventional choice for dishing out violence.”

“Yeah, she was dusting when I came in and told her. I think she forgot that she was holding it.”

“Hmm.” He huffs out a soft laugh. “I guess it’s a damn good thing she wasn’t ironing, then.”

Our eyes meet, and there’s a flash of that marvelous, perfectly synchronised camaraderie that I’ve never felt with anyone else. We begin to giggle, then laugh, and finally we’re both stretched out on the sitting room floor, roaring with laughter.

 _Hell_. I’ve missed this laughter, this _bond_ , so much. Am I really willing to give it up, on principle?

I’m not nearly as certain of my position on the issue as I was this morning.

 

oOoOo

 


	11. In Confidence

oOoOo

 

**Chapter 11: In Confidence**

 

oOoOo

**_“This hour I tell things in confidence,_ **

**_I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.”_ **

**_―_ ** **_Walt Whitman_ **

oOoOo

 

Eventually, I recover enough to climb to my feet. I am feeling every minute of the last couple of days in my bones, and a long drive hasn’t helped any. What I need is a good, hearty cup of tea, my go-to solution for everything that ails me.

“Tea?” I ask, as I fill the kettle, click it on, and stretch up into the cabinet for mugs. Sherlock is abruptly close behind me _(when did he get up? Silent as a jungle cat)_. He reaches up to hand me two mugs, as though I’m several feet shorter than he is, instead of a lousy six inches. _Git._

Then I freeze, unable to move at all, as his breath wafts softly over my neck, and I can feel the warmth of his body just behind mine. It is all I can do not to lean back to close the gap between us.

I stand rigid, hands clenching around the lip of the countertop, searching for my self-control. _Head, not heart, head, not heart…_ Warm, soft lips nuzzle against my ear, and Sherlock’s hands gently grip my upper arms, then slide forward to splay long fingers across my chest. I finally manage to make a sound come from my perfectly dry throat.

“Sh–Sherlock…what are you…”

“Mmmmm…John,” he rumbles, in the deep, velvety baritone that has always caused my toes to curl. My breath is coming in short gasps.

“Sherlock, I told you, I’m not ready to – ”

Long, slim fingers press lightly over my lips to prevent me from speaking.  That rich, honeyed voice murmurs ever so softly into my ear again.

“We’re under surveillance here, John.” A soft kiss is pressed just behind my ear, then he continues in a bare whisper, “I have things I need to tell you – plans – but, I can’t just say them out loud. This is merely subterfuge.”

I stand stock-still, absorbing this information. Sherlock’s body is now pressed firmly along my back, and the warmth and strength of his body is enough to take my brain offline. Another breathy whisper jolts some sense back into me.

“You’re too stiff – anyone watching would know something’s wrong. _Work_ with me, John. Relax.”

_Relax. Right._

I allow my head to drop backward against Sherlock’s shoulder, turn my head toward him as though to nibble on his neck and ear.

“Sherlock,” I whisper rather bitingly into his ear, “don’t you think that this is one of those bits of information that might have been useful to know…oh, I don’t know… _hours ago?_ It didn’t occur to you to tell me when we were in the car together for _five hours_ , or even while we were still in Dartmoor?”

“I didn’t know until just before Mrs. Hudson came upstairs,” Sherlock murmurs back, his furrowed brow forming a line above his nose. “At that juncture, I had a few other things on my mind, like a feather duster, a table, and a startlingly hard floor.”

The man has a point.

“The surveillance,” I whisper. “Is it Mycroft? I thought you disabled his equipment.”

Sherlock huffs irritably.

“Mycroft is the one who alerted me to the other surveillance equipment. His tendency to play Big Brother has finally had a useful result. He phoned while I was waiting for you to tell Mrs. Hudson. It seems there is more than one set of eyes and ears on us here.”

 _What?_ I pull back a bit, trying to meet his eyes. His laserlike gaze meets mine for a moment, and he gives me a miniscule nod of confirmation – then leans forward to capture my lips with his own.

Oh, _God_.

Those warm, soft lips, the ones I longed for so much, slip softly against mine, and I’m turning toward him and we’re in each other’s arms and we’re…

… _under surveillance._

Sherlock feels the change in my posture and breathing as I come back to earth with a jolt, remembering this unpleasant little fact, and breaks the kiss, pulling me close as if he’s kissing my ear.

“Mycroft is sending a car to pick us up in an hour.” The vibration of his voice in my ear raises a trail of goosebumps on my arms. “Mrs. Hudson, as well. We’ll go to a safehouse for the night, and we can make our plans in a relatively secure environment.”

“How does he know we’re under surveillance?” I whisper into his ear, pretending to nuzzle against it. It’s not entirely a charade – I can smell that elusive, tangy scent that is just _Sherlock_ , and I can’t seem to resist taking deep breaths of it, filling my senses with the essence of the man I love.

“It seems this flat has been under constant observation for months, John,” Sherlock replies under his breath, as he kisses along my jawline. “Moriarty was watching us, and we have to assume the surveillance equipment is still being monitored by Moran.”

“Mor–?” I pull my head back, startled. Sherlock lunges forward, seizes my head in his hands, and kisses me fiercely, silencing me. I’m feeling deeply confused, between the whispered conversation and the kissing, and I struggle to pull away. Sherlock pulls me close again, and whispers harshly in my ear.

“Don’t be a fool. _Keep your voice down_ , they are watching and listening right now!”

Chagrined, I realise that I could have blown everything. “Sorry,” I mumble into Sherlock’s curls.

“Just be careful,” he whispers, as he tightens his arms around me, a wordless apology for his harshness before. “I can fill you in a bit before we go, but we need a location that’s a touch more secure.” His lips against my neck are driving me mad.

“Where?”

Sherlock turns to me with a broad, false smile.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he says loudly, as he takes my hand, leading me to the bedroom.

“What –?” I stop dead in the doorway, confused.

“You’re right - it _has_ been far too long,” he says, as he pulls me towards the neatly made bed.

“Sherlock, I’m really not ready to…” I trail off, as I meet his eyes, that blazing silver gaze telling me to _shut up and go along with him, damn it._ I sigh and allow him to push me down to sit on the edge of the bed.

It sure as hell didn’t take long for me to go back to letting my deranged boyfriend have his way in everything.

Sherlock kneels to remove my shoes and socks, then reaches up to unbutton my shirt and ease it back from my shoulders. He sits back on his heels, unbuttoning the two sad buttons remaining on his horrid thick shirt (we really must get him another one), and peeling it off, followed swiftly by his t-shirt.

Wincing at the prominence of his ribs, but dizzied by the expanse of bare skin so close to me, I lean back to watch as he stands, toes off his thick hiking shoes, and sheds his jeans. He sits beside me, bending to strip off his woolen socks, then reaches for my belt.

“Sherlock, really –” my protest is cut off by a firm push against my good shoulder, which topples me back onto the mattress. Sherlock swiftly divests me of my trousers, then he tugs me up to join him under the duvet, clad only in our pants. He pulls the duvet up to cover us completely, and I finally understand what he’s doing.

There’s almost certainly no surveillance equipment under here. As long as we whisper softly enough, we can’t be overheard, and since we can’t be seen by any hidden cameras, they won’t be able to read our lips, either.

Or at least, that’s what I assume he’s thinking – until he climbs to lie on top of me, pressing his chest to mine. The sensation of skin on skin is almost overwhelming.

 _“Sherlock!”_ I hiss, panicked. It feels too good – I’ll never be able to use my self-imposed _“head, not heart”_ rule if he keeps this up. He leans down to murmur in my ear.

“Relax, John,” Sherlock whispers. “The cameras will tell Moran that there’s no need to bother listening in – not when we appear to be engaged in sexual intercourse. He doesn’t have voyeuristic tendencies.”

“Who the hell is Moran?”

“Moran is our last target.” Sherlock pushes up onto his knees a bit, straddling my hips, and begins to rock his hips forward. From outside the duvet, this ought to look pretty convincing.

The trouble is, it’s pretty convincing to my body, too. The stimulation of Sherlock’s silk-clad groin brushing rhythmically against mine is going to create serious difficulty, fast. I seize him by the hips, pressing him backward, trying to create some space between us. Sherlock simply continues the motion as he leans toward my ear again.

“Everyone else of consequence in Moriarty’s network has been neutralised,” he murmurs.

 _Damn,_ that’s hot.

I know I _should_ be horrified – “neutralised” is almost certainly synonymous for “killed” or possibly “indefinitely imprisoned by a certain Machiavellian older brother.” Yet, there’s something about the idea of Sherlock hunting down crime lords like rabid dogs that goes straight to my libido.

I’m fairly certain that I have a danger kink.

“I have a trap planned,” Sherlock continues, _sotto voce_. “We just need to get out of here for a bit, so I can get things set up. Then we can close our nets on Moran. But I _need_ your help for this, John.”

Sherlock’s breath has become heavier, more uneven. As he rocks his hips against me, I am all too aware of the evidence of his arousal brushing against my own. I seize him by the hips, roll him over, and pin him down, hands gripping his wrists on either side of his head. Sherlock’s eyes, already dilated in the dim light under the bedclothes, darken to look almost black. His breathing is harsh and ragged. Doggedly repeating my _“head, not heart”_ mantra to myself, I whisper harshly in his ear.

“Stop trying to seduce me and answer my question, damn it. I _said_ , who the hell is Moran?”

Sherlock blinks rapidly, then sighs, murmuring, “Colonel Sebastian Moran, freelance sniper, formerly of the Special Reconnaissance Regiment.”

_Jesus._

Sebastian Moran.

_Abruptly, I can feel hot, dry air, see the blazing sun, and smell the honeyed fragrance of poppies on the wind. I’m leaning back against the support post of my tent, enjoying a few quiet moments of downtime, when the klaxon sounds, signaling incoming wounded. I rush to the surgery ward, start getting gowned up and scrubbed in._

_“6-year-old female, GSW to upper abdomen, heart rate 150, BP 80/50 labored breathing, resp rate 24, 02sat 95%, afebrile with cool, clammy skin, signs of hypovolemic shock,” calls out the medic, as my patient is wheeled into surgery._

_Dear God. She’s so small._

_As the anesthesiologist prepares to put a mask on her, the child is babbling, crying  “Ummi! Ummi! Baba!” I grit my teeth at the pitiful voice calling for her parents._

_The hardest part of working at the hospital has been the sheer number of Afghan children that I’ve had to treat for gunshot wounds, for burns, for horrible, unspeakable injuries and trauma. Soldiers understand the risk, and have accepted that their lives are on the line. These innocent civilian children have no say in what is happening to them._

_Now is not the time to do this. I square my shoulders and put my horror away for later, as I always do._

_While we work desperately on the little girl, trying to salvage a lobe of her liver, the medic that brought her in returns to check on his patient. The charge nurse, Sadie, asks him the circumstances of the shooting._

_“I’ve never seen anything like it. It was at a really posh house, y’know? An estate, I guess. Had its own grounds and all. Whole family gunned down; father, mother and three kids. She’s the oldest, and the only survivor.”_

_“God, I hate AK-47s,” bites out Sadie, bitterly. “These bastards find it all too easy to mow down everyone in sight.”_

_I frown, sparing a quick glance up from my patient’s abdomen. “This injury isn’t from an AK-47. It’s much bigger.”_

_“Nah, this was a sniper hit.”_

_“A sniper?” Sadie gasps. “I thought you said the whole family was shot!”_

_“I did,” the medic sighs. “Whoever shot her, shot her whole family, cool as you please. They were outside, no cover, and he just picked them off, one by one.”_

_Stomach churning, I turn my focus back to my patient, trying to block out the horrific mental images of a happy family enjoying the sunshine, then methodically cut down in cold blood. Now is not the time for this – I need to focus on the surgery._

_One hour and forty-five feverish minutes later, after multiple transfusions, after doing everything we possibly could, I call it: “Time of death, 1721 hours.” I strip off my gloves, rip off the gown, and step to the sink, exhausted, furious, spent. As I’m scrubbing out, I lean against the sink, staring down into the drain._

_I can’t do this anymore. I need to be where I can work on the front lines, as it’s happening. I simply cannot bear to wait at the hospital for patients to arrive anymore. I want to make an immediate difference._

_The next morning, I speak to my superior officer about the procedure to transfer to being an embedded medic. She tries to dissuade me, but I’m determined. Sighing, she agrees to help me begin the application to transfer._

_About a month later, just before I join the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as their embedded medic, a news story breaks about an SRR officer, Colonel Sebastian Moran, who is being dishonorably discharged for murdering a civilian family. As a sniper, he was sent after a military target. Despite having a clear kill shot of his target, he deliberately massacred the entire family of the target first – his wife and three children, the oldest of whom survived a few hours before dying at a British military hospital._

_I remember a little voice crying, “Ummi! Baba!” and I know who murdered the patient who was the impetus for my transfer to the front lines._

_Sebastian Moran…_

“John!” Sherlock is writhing under me, trying to break my brutally tight grip on his wrists. I gasp as I come back to the here and now, and release him. I fall back on my pillow, feeling trapped under the duvet. I throw the covers away, gasping for fresh air.

“John, what is it?” He reaches over to turn my face toward him. I look into his beautiful silver eyes, filled with concern and love, and something in me shifts, locks into place.

Maybe I’ve been thinking about this all wrong. _Head, not heart_ is how Sebastian Moran might approach things. He is the sort of soldier who values calculated ruthlessness above all else. But…I’m a different sort of soldier. The kind of soldier who chooses to take a more dangerous position in order to make a difference – one who fights to protect the things that matter.

Sherlock has always said that he values my heart. Maybe it’s time I listened to it.

_Right, then. Here we go. Showtime._

I lean over and whisper in his ear. “How long before Mycroft’s car will be here?”

“Maybe fifteen minutes… _seriously_ , John – _what is it?_ ”he hisses back.

“I’ll tell you about it at the safehouse,” I whisper. Then more loudly, I say, “Come on – we’re going out. Let’s invite Mrs. Hudson. A peace offering.”

I jump up, pull on my jeans and shirt, and sit down to put on my boots and socks. I briskly step to the wardrobe and fling it open, surveying Sherlock’s clothes, still so carefully stored away. I pull out my favorite aubergine shirt and a pair of dark jeans, and throw them to him.

“Put these on. Those clothes you were wearing in Dartmoor are going in the bin – they looked absolutely ridiculous on you.” I can hear the tone of command in my voice, but I don’t care – if we’re up against Moran, _this is war._

 “Hurry up, Sherlock – we need to get going.” I step over to him, grasp his chin in my hand, and kiss him hard. Then I step back.

“I’ll meet you downstairs. I need to go tell Mrs. Hudson.”

A brilliant smile breaks across Sherlock’s face, as he clutches the clothes to his chest. He’s watching me like a crime scene, and it feels absolutely amazing.

 

oOoOo

 


	12. Shine Through Tears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter could not have been written without the help of two marvelous fic writers, abundantlyqueer and AfroGeekGoddess. Thank you both so much for your ideas and feedback on the character of Moran and his backstory. You are both amazing.
> 
> Enormous thanks to my incomparable beta reader/editor/mentor/friend, Skyfullofstars. I can’t believe how much time and effort you put into encouraging me, despite everything going on in your life. You are the best.

oOoOo

 

**Chapter 12: Shine Through Tears**

 

oOoOo

**_“Just as hope rings through laughter, it can also shine through tears.”_ **

**_―_ ** **_Maya Angelou_ **

oOoOo

 

Fortunately, it is fairly easy to persuade Mrs. Hudson to pack a small bag and join us. All I need to do is tell her (in whispers) that there is imminent threat from a sniper, and Sherlock and I want her to come with us to keep her safe. I explain the surveillance situation, and our cover story of a night out. She immediately begins gathering things into an overnight bag. I leave her to it, and dash back upstairs.

As I step back into the flat, Sherlock comes out of the bedroom, his posh leather hold-all in his hand. For a moment, I can’t seem to get enough air. He’s wearing the purple shirt and jeans, along with a supple, black leather jacket and a pair of black brogues, and he just looks so gorgeous, so… _Sherlock_. If he weren’t still sporting those ginger locks, I’d have a hard time believing he was ever gone.

He steps forward, closing the distance between us. He raises a hand to my face, tentatively cupping my jaw in his palm. His eyes are focused steadily on mine.

“John?”

His voice is a bit unsteady. He’s asking so many things with that one word; forgiveness, readiness, permission to kiss me. Without breaking eye contact, I nod once. He closes the distance between us, and his lips meet mine.

 _Oh_.

His lips are so soft, so warm against my own. I sink into the kiss, and feel Sherlock’s arms slipping around my waist to pull me closer. As my hands slide up his back, I open my lips in response to the tongue that strokes along them. Sherlock’s body is so solid and strong, despite his too-prominent ribs, and it feels amazing against mine. We deepen the kiss, tongues sliding and twining, arms pulling each other closer, tighter. The whole world could fall away right now, and we’d never notice…

“Ahem.”

Okay. We might notice.

We break the kiss, and Sherlock, without looking away from me, growls, “Go away, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson and I both speak at once, in the same scolding tone.

He looks back and forth between us, then mutters, “My apologies. I meant; could you please give us a few more minutes, Mrs. Hudson?”

Her expression softens a bit, but she merely remarks, tartly, “The car is here. I thought you two were taking me out for the evening.”

“We are,” he sighs, releasing me and picking up his hold-all again, “and we should hurry, if we want to beat the evening rush.”

The three of us descend the stairs. As Mrs. Hudson and I are shrugging into our coats, Sherlock suddenly gasps, “Oh!” and makes a grab for the shabby anorak that he wore in Dartmoor.

“Sherlock, really, you’re already wearing a jacket, and a much nicer one than that tatty old thing,” scolds Mrs. Hudson.

“I just need some things from the pockets,” mutters Sherlock, as he begins to transfer bits of paper, his magnifier, a small drawstring pouch, half a dozen zip ties, his lockpick kit, a pair of nitrile gloves, and several other small items into the pockets of his leather jacket.

This small task completed to his satisfaction, Sherlock pulls out his mobile and sends a text. A moment later the text alert chimes, and he regards his phone with a mixture of irritation and satisfaction.

“Mycroft’s agents are giving the all-clear – all possible vantage points for a sniper to target the front door are secure at this time. We should move quickly, regardless.”

So saying, he opens the door and hustles the three of us into the waiting black car, Mrs. Hudson in front with the driver, and Sherlock and I in back with Mycroft’s assistant.

“Anthea” reluctantly raises her chocolate-brown eyes from her Blackberry long enough to give us a small nod and an even smaller smile. Sherlock rolls his eyes in return.

“What location has my overbearing prat of a brother chosen for our retreat?” he asks.

“A safehouse in Knightsbridge.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow at her, and he growls, “ _Whose_ safehouse, exactly?”

“Why do you bother asking questions when you already know the answers, Mr. Holmes?” she replies, with a cool smirk.

“That insufferable arse,” Sherlock grumbles.

Everyone is silent for a bit. Finally, I can’t stand the silence any longer, and I decide to ask a question that has bugged me since the first day I met Mycroft’s insufferable assistant.

“So, ‘Anthea,’ may I just ask – what _is_ your real name?”

Her eyebrow lifts to an amazing height.

“Why on earth do you ask?”

“Because you told me, the day we first met, that your name was Anthea, and the way you said it…it just didn’t sound real. When I asked if it was, you said no.” I shift to turn a little toward her. “If we are trusting you with our lives, then it would be nice to know your real name.”

An actual smile, albeit still a smug one, appears on her face. She should really smile more – it makes her appear much more human.

“My real name…is Anthea.”

I sag back against the seat in irritation, and she reaches out to pat my hand.

“It actually _is_ Anthea, Doctor Watson. Anthea Elizabeth. Always has been.” Her lovely smile widens, and I find myself smiling in response.

Suddenly long, artistic fingers aggressively twine with mine, and Sherlock shoots a possessive glare at Anthea. I can’t help but laugh out loud as I squeeze the hand of my mad, jealous boyfriend.

 

oOoOo

 

The car stops in front of a gorgeous row of terraced houses in Knightsbridge. The driver opens the door for Mrs. Hudson, then the back door for us. We are urged indoors by an agent in an extremely well-tailored suit. He gestures us into a beautifully-appointed drawing room, where we sit down. He disappears toward the back of the house. I take the opportunity to gaze around at the tasteful surroundings.

God, even the furniture gives off an air of self-satisfaction.

Which is why it shouldn’t surprise me at all when Mycroft strolls in.

“Ah, Mrs. Hudson, how do you do?” Mycroft bends over her hand in a courtly gesture. She smiles politely, but the expression on her face is certainly nothing like the pleased one she gives to Sherlock on the rare occasions that he hugs her. It is quite clear which Holmes brother is her favorite.

Mycroft turns to me.

“And Doctor Watson, so nice to see you,” he says, with a supercilious smile. “I trust you are enjoying the return of the prodigal? Bit of a surprise, wasn’t it?” There is a humming ring in my ears, and I feel myself clenching up.

Abruptly, Mycroft is reeling backward, and my knuckles are burning.

_Christ, I just punched the British Government._

Mycroft regains his balance, and with astonishing composure, massages his jaw. He gently brushes off Mrs. Hudson’s concerned exclamation, then remarks, “You have a remarkable left hook, John. In the future, if you need a sparring partner, might I suggest your lover? My brother was awarded the Full Blue for boxing at Cambridge.”

“Shut up, Mycroft,” snarls Sherlock. The brothers lock eyes in a steely duel of pale irises. Mycroft looks away first.

I finally recover my ability to speak.

“Both of you, shut up,” I snap at them. They turn to me with identical amazed expressions. I would laugh at the resemblance, but I’m still in shock at my own loss of control.

“Mycroft, at some point you and I are going to have a discussion about the ethics of letting someone grieve needlessly, when you have the power to stop that grief.” His eyebrows arch, but I continue, “However, there is a more imminent threat that we need to focus on at the moment. I need time to discuss strategy with Sherlock – alone. I imagine Mrs. Hudson would like to settle in, as well.”

Mycroft steps back with a smooth beckoning gesture.

“Quite right. Mrs. Hudson, you’ll be in the other bedroom on the first floor, beside mine. John and Sherlock, you will be right upstairs. There are two bedrooms – make what sleeping arrangements you like.” He escorts us all toward the elegant staircase.

“Why are _you_ staying here as well, Mycroft?” I ask, feeling irritated that he’s insinuating himself into the situation.

“It’s my house, John – I live here,” he replies smoothly.

Wonderful.

 

oOoOo

 

To my surprise, my bag from the trip to Dartmoor has been retrieved from the hire car, and waits on the landing of the top floor of Mycroft’s enormous home, alongside Sherlock’s violin and rucksack. It’s a relief – I hadn’t thought to ask to stop at my bedsitter for a change of clothes.

Sherlock and I stand facing each other on the landing. Neither of us is willing to be the first to broach the bedroom situation. Do we share? Should we sleep apart?

_Can I bear to be apart from him, even now? Especially now? And yet…I need time to sort out my feelings, and sharing a bed will be too tempting._

_Apart it is._

Sherlock is fidgeting with something in his pocket, which seems to have become a nervous tic for him.

“John – thank you for not punching me like that,” he murmurs, looking down at his feet. “I know you must have felt the impulse to do so.”

“Sherlock,” I say, reaching for his hand, “I couldn’t have punched you, no matter how much part of me wanted to.”

“Why? You’ve punched me before,” he objects. “When we were on our way to meet Irene Adler, you punched me spectacularly hard, in fact.”

_I flush, remembering Miss Adler’s comment about the placement of the punch. “Somebody loves you…if I had to punch that face, I’d avoid the nose and teeth, too.” She recognised my feelings for Sherlock before I did._

“We were just friends and flatmates then, Sherlock. A romantic partner is different. I hope I will always have enough self-restraint to resist domestic violence.”

Sherlock flashes me one of his rare, crooked smiles. “Always the chivalrous one, John.”

“Shut it, you wanker.” I turn to pick up my bag. “Shall we investigate the room situation? And then we need to get down to business. We have a psychopath to capture.”

Sherlock picks up his rucksack and violin case, juggling a bit to hold them along with the leather hold-all he’s already carrying.

“Whatever you say, Captain Watson.”

 

oOoOo

 

The larger of the two bedrooms has a cosy pair of armchairs in front of the fireplace. After depositing our bags in the two rooms (with a mournful look from Sherlock when I informed him that we were sleeping separately), we sit together before the fire. The fireplace has been adapted for gas logs, and a cheerful blaze jumps to life at the touch of a switch.

“This is lovely,” I sigh, as I stretch my feet out toward the flames. “I wonder if Mrs. Hudson would let us fit our fireplace for gas? It would save us humping buckets of ash down to the bins.”

“A natural fire is much warmer and more aesthetically pleasing,” he replies.  “It’s worth the extra effort.”

“How the hell would you know?” I snap. “I do all the work. God forbid that you should ever clean the fireplace – I’ll bet you don’t even know how.”

Sherlock shifts irritably in his chair.

“Are you ready to tell me about Moran?” he asks, changing the topic.

“I thought _you_ were going to tell _me_ about him! You’re the one who has all of the information.”

“No, no, no, John – are you ready to tell me why you reacted like you did to my mention of his name?”

“He’s…he’s the reason I became a combat medic,” I explain. “In fact, you could say that he’s the reason I was in a position to get shot.”

That certainly gets his attention.

“What? How?”

I start to explain to Sherlock about the Afghan family that Moran shot down, but he shrugs that information off as inconsequential.

“I already know the reason for his dishonorable discharge and murder charges, John. It doesn’t explain any link to you.”

“It would if you’d listen, you impatient git. I had a surgical patient, a little girl who was gut-shot by a British sniper. I lost her on the table. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back – I felt like I had to do more than just sit and wait for patients to come to me. So I requested a transfer to working on the front line as a combat medic.”

Sherlock is staring at me, those silver eyes glittering with intensity.

“So, wasn’t he court-martialed?” I ask. “There’s no way they let him off without a mandatory life sentence.”

 “No, he disappeared. You were hardly going to see _that_ story make it to the press – they would have been baying for blood.”

“Let me guess – _Dear Jim, please fix it for me to avoid several consecutive life sentences_.”

“Something like that, yes. Moran’s his own man, however. It would be a major error to think of him as Moriarty’s lackey.”

Sherlock sinks further back into his amazingly plush armchair, steepling his fingers together under his chin.

“You’ve always insisted that I’m not a sociopath, John. However…”

“You’re not a sociopath, and there’s no such thing as a sociopath anymore,” I interrupt him. “It’s an outdated term, and quite vague. We’ve had this discussion a million times, Sherlock…”

 _“…However,”_ Sherlock repeats, sharply, “sociopathy, psychopathy, antisocial or borderline personality disorders – call it whatever you like, it’s an apt description of Sebastian Moran. The man has no sense of empathy or compassion for others, and will manipulate anyone and everyone to achieve his own personal gain. He’s the perfect assassin for someone like Moriarty.”

“If he’s only out for his own gain, then why is he still hunting you? If Moriarty’s dead, he won’t be paid.” I pause to think about it, then ask, “ _Oh_ – were he and Moriarty very close? Is that why he’s still pursuing you?”

 “Close to Moriarty? Hardly.” Sherlock snorts.  “There’s only one person in the world that Moran is close to; his spotter, Ronald Adair. As a marksman, you probably know more about the partnership between a sniper and his spotter than I do. Adair is the only person Moran lets inside, and even that relationship is based on mutual advantage rather than sentiment.”

“So why _is_ he still pursuing you?”

“Moran knows that I know he’s out there, available for hire. He’s simply looking out for his own self-interest now. Moran worked for Moriarty because he liked the lifestyle that Moriarty provided, not out of any sort of loyalty. He’s extremely dangerous, possibly as dangerous as Moriarty, for different reasons. Moriarty was unpredictably insane, but Moran – well, Moran is as ruthless and cold as a crocodile.”

“Then it sounds like we need to remove him from the criminal population,” I remark. Sherlock offers a wolfish grin in reply.

 

oOoOo

 

Sherlock has gone downstairs to talk to Mycroft. I can’t stomach seeing Mycroft yet, so I remain in my room upstairs. I grab my laptop and begin a search for Sebastian Moran. Despite the news stories about the murders he committed in Afghanistan, there isn’t much background on him.

_Let’s see… third-generation_ _British Nigerian… raised in a life of upper-class privilege … parents both extremely successful, wealthy professionals… attended officer training at Sandhurst… renowned for his marksmanship in the army… drafted into the SRR as a sniper._

Special Forces doesn’t exactly broadcast information about its officers, so there isn’t much information beyond that point.

And then I find an article listing the names of his victims, accompanied by a photo:

> ****UK soldier faces war crimes trial****
> 
> _Colonel Sebastian Moran, a British soldier, is facing war crimes charges as well as criminal charges in connection with the deaths of Akhoond Mirwais Jan Wazir, an Afghan religious leader, his wife, Shaista Wazir, and their children; Aisha Wazir, age 6, Mohammad Wazir, 5, Senzela Wazir, 3, and Mirwais Wazir, 2._
> 
> _Moran is from the Special Reconnaissance Regiment of the United Kingdom Special Forces. He is the most senior officer to be charged with an offence during the military action in Afghanistan._
> 
> _The murder charges faced by Moran were brought under the International Criminal Court Act 2001 and will be tried as war crimes. Moran will be tried by British court martial, not at The Hague._

I gaze at the photo of Moran that was used with the news articles, of Moran when he was promoted to colonel. Aesthetically, he’s a handsome man, with very dark, almost ebony skin, almond-shaped eyes set beneath strong, arched brows, a broad nose, high cheekbones, and a strong, determined jawline. However, the focused, steely gaze in his photo makes him look every bit as dangerous as Sherlock described. I shudder at the utter ruthlessness in his unsmiling expression. Moran looks like an incredibly dangerous man, as cold and coiled as a snake.

I didn’t know the name of the little girl when I tried and failed to save her in that operating room. I only knew a tiny bit about the circumstances of her shooting, and the massacre of her family. The news stories I saw afterward were thin on details. At least I finally know her name: Aisha Wazir.

I want this maniac taken down, and I’ll be glad to be part of the team that does it. I want to do it for Sherlock, for Mrs. Hudson, for Lestrade, and for the countless others that will be lined up in his crosshairs in the future if I don’t.

But, most of all, I want to do it for little Aisha. I owe her that much.

 

oOoOo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 12 Author’s note: I borrowed the handsome face of the incredibly talented Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje for my Colonel Moran headcanon. Hopefully he won’t mind. He’s one of those deliciously skilled actors who can simply become the many different roles they play, and I could so easily picture him playing a cold, ruthless killer like Moran.


	13. A Second Chance

oOoOo

 

**Chapter 13: A Second Chance**

 

oOoOo

**_“I've learned that life sometimes gives you a second chance.”_ **

**_―_ ** **_Maya Angelou_ **

oOoOo

 

Long, slim fingers slide into the hair at the nape of my neck, startling me out of my intense focus on the Moran research.

“Mmmmmm…”

Succumbing to the temptation, I lean back into the touch, savouring the sensation. A deep chuckle abruptly brings a lump into my throat. _God,_ I’ve missed hearing that laugh.

Sherlock so rarely laughs with others, but the two of us have always dissolved into giggles when we’re together, from the first night we spent at a crime scene. Hearing him chuckling now, it hits me again – _he’s alive._ He’s _here_. He’s still mine – _if_ I’ll allow him to be.

The fingers slip out of my hair, move down to squeeze my shoulder affectionately, and then Sherlock steps around to slide a carefully balanced tray loaded with sandwiches, biscuits, and tea onto the little table between the two fireside chairs. He flops down into the chair opposite mine.

“I assumed you would prefer to eat up here, instead of dining with Mycroft.”

“That’s brilliant. Cheers, love,” I say, feeling a bit stunned at his thoughtfulness, as well as incredible relief at not having to break bread with the man I punched a couple of hours ago.

Sherlock goes absolutely still, his crystalline eyes wide.

“What?” I lean toward him, concerned. “What is it?”

He shakes his head abruptly.

“Nothing, John. It’s nothing. Here – you haven’t eaten anything since the dreadful fish and chips you picked up in Exeter. Obviously, you’re hungry.”

I take an egg and cress sandwich, bite into it thoughtfully. Chewing, I raise an eyebrow at Sherlock, looking pointedly between him and the plate, until he finally sighs and picks up a sandwich.

“Seriously, Sherlock – why did you look like that?”

Sherlock takes a gargantuan bite of his sandwich, shrugging and chewing ostentatiously to show that he can’t possibly answer the question. Ridiculous man. _I will remember this, though, for the next time I need to get him to eat._ I wait until he swallows, then prompt him again.

“Sherlock?”

He looks strangely abashed.

“It’s just…well…that’s the first time you’ve used an endearment since…well, you know…” He doesn’t need to end the sentence. The fall from the rooftop at Bart’s looms between us, unspoken.

“It felt…singularly pleasant.” He takes another bite, then mumbles through his mouthful, “I’ve really missed it.”

Despite being filtered through a mouthful of cheese sandwich, this statement brings on another moment of clarity for me. The love of my life was gone – _gone_ – and I was lost without him. I have the rare opportunity for a real second chance.

I’m going to stick by my policy of taking it slowly, but I’m not letting this opportunity pass by, either. I _know_ what it’s like to exist without Sherlock. I’m not going to voluntarily do it again.

 

oOoOo

 

“So, what’s the big plan for Moran?”

“I’m going to use his own skill against him.”

I look up, alarmed.

“Sherlock, you can’t mean that you plan to lie in wait and shoot him!” I lean forward, earnestly, to hold his gaze. “Moran’s a sniper, he’s intimately familiar with methods of stalking and hiding. You are far more likely to wind up being on the receiving end of any bullet fired in that exchange.”

Sherlock smirks. “Not exactly, John. Yes, I plan to lie in wait – but he’ll be doing the shooting. I plan to bait the trap with a target he simply can’t resist.”

He rises from his chair, and paces back and forth before the fireplace.

“Moran has had several opportunities to take me out if he really wanted to do so. He could have shot me on the rooftop at Bart’s. He could have shot us through the walls at Baker Street earlier today, if he was in place. Armor piercing rounds and infrared scopes would certainly make it possible. He has certainly proved, many times, that he has no compunction about taking innocent bystanders out with his target, so it wouldn’t matter who he shot along with me.”

“No, he’s not going to do it like that. Moran wants to see my face when he takes me down. I’ve taken away his meal ticket in destroying Moriarty’s network. His spotter is all he has left. He’ll want to see it happen, see the moment the bullet strikes me.”

I shudder at the horrid mental image of Sherlock’s body being penetrated and shattered by a high-powered rifle.

“Tell me you’re not planning on setting yourself up as bait.” When he merely smiles at me, I gasp, “Jesus! You really _are_ a nutter, you know that? If he gets you in his sights, you can’t possibly outmanoeuvre him. He’ll kill you.”

“That’s the idea, John.”

 _“No.”_ I leap to my feet, seizing him by his shirt front. “No, you are not putting me through that again, Sherlock. I’m not losing you again.”

I bury my head in his chest, still fisting both hands in his purple shirt, breathing in the scent of him and feeling the reassuring solidity of his pectoral muscles against my forehead. Sherlock’s arms wrap around my shoulders, holding me tightly.

“My apologies, John – that’s not how I meant to say it. Moran is going to think it’s me that he’s shooting. Meanwhile, we’ll be waiting to catch him in the act.” He pulls back a bit and smiles, tipping my face up to look into his own. “Think of it as a sting operation, if you will.”

“Then _who_ are you putting in the line of fire?”

“My decoy will be here in the morning, John. Don’t worry – if all goes well, no one will be in danger of being shot.”

 _More mysterious bullshit._ I have to clench my jaw and pinch the bridge of my nose to keep from shouting at Sherlock.

“Sherlock, I have had enough of the ‘wait and see my grand plan unveiled in all of its glory’ attitude. I think we’ve had enough magic tricks and sleight of hand in this relationship.”

He looks startled, then apologetic.

“Of course, John. It’s just that it’s hard to believe if you haven’t seen the decoy firsthand. I’m not trying to hide anything from you – it’s just simpler to let you see it for yourself tomorrow.” He leans forward to press his forehead to my own.

“I swear, John. No more deceptions. No more lies.” He presses forward to kiss me softly, chastely, on the forehead, as though solemnising a vow. “The decoy will work, you’ll see. First thing in the morning, you’ll understand.”

He squeezes me tighter for a moment, then pulls away.

 “Now, if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ve got to see a man about a dog.” He heads into the bathroom that joins the two bedrooms on this floor. Instead of hearing the door close, though, I’m surprised to hear him snort derisively.

I follow Sherlock to the bathroom doorway, to find him holding a small box with a photo of a gorgeous, brunette woman on it, labeled “Préférence Permanent Hair Colour – Brasilia Dark Brown.” In his other hand is a small sticky note, written in a neat, precise hand:

_Sherlock –_

_For God’s sake, do something about your hair. You look absolutely ridiculous as a ginger._

_– Mycroft_

My eyes meet Sherlock’s in the mirror, and we dissolve into giggles.

 

oOoOo

 

I spend nearly half an hour saying goodnight to Sherlock, standing close together at the door to my bedroom, talking and laughing – then kissing.

It starts out slowly enough, but then Sherlock sighs with pleasure as I slide my fingers into his glossy locks. Even though his curls are still too short, they are back to the original, dark chocolate colour that makes his skin look like porcelain, and I can’t keep my hands out of his hair. That little sigh hits me squarely in the libido, and I am pulling him closer, wrapping myself more tightly around him.

_Christ, it feels so amazing to hold him again._

Finally, reluctantly, I end the kiss, and pull back. I’m still held loosely within the circle of Sherlock’s arms. He leans forward and presses his forehead to mine, those opalescent eyes gazing into my own.

“May I stay with you tonight, John?”

“I need to take things slowly,” I whisper, stroking his cheekbone with my thumb as I cradle his face in my hands. “Can you understand that?”

“No,” he sighs, but he takes my face in both of his hands, and leans down to kiss my forehead in a chaste press of warm lips to my skin; a benediction. “But _you_ understand it, and I trust you.”

He releases me, slowly, and I stretch up to kiss him once more, soft and sweet.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John.”

After I close the door behind him, I step into our shared bathroom, firmly closing both doors, strip out of my clothes, and take a quick shower. I consider taking care of the lingering feelings of arousal myself, but then simply turn the shower to cold for a minute at the end. Equally effective, albeit a lot less pleasant, but I don’t want Sherlock to overhear me wanking in the shower.

Back in my own room, I dress in flannel pyjama trousers and my old Army t-shirt. It feels strange and lonely to climb into the enormous, fluffy bed alone. Fortunately, I’m so exhausted from the rollercoaster ride of the past two days that I find myself drifting off immediately.

 

oOoOo

 

_Sherlock and I race through a narrow, twisting alley. Sherlock is fleet as a deer, and I pound along at his heels, watching his coat flare out behind him like a superhero’s cape. Suddenly he makes a leap at the ladder of a fire escape, pulls it down, and races up toward the roof of the building. I try to scramble up behind him, but my hands keep slipping from the rungs, and then the ladder melts away into nothingness._

_I run around the building, looking for another way to follow Sherlock, but there are no other fire escapes, no doors, no way to reach him. My mobile rings in my pocket, and my heart does a strange, sideways-twisting sort of beat when I see that it’s Sherlock._

_“Hello?” There is no reply, just a roaring sound, like a waterfall. “Hello? Sherlock?”_

_There is still no answer, only that strange roar, mixed now with faraway sounds of machine-gunfire and confused shouting._

_“Sherlock! Sherlock, answer me!”_

_“John?” Suddenly he’s on the line, his voice trembling with emotion. “John, this phone call...it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?”_

_God, no._ Please _don’t do this._

_“Leave a note when?” I gasp, my heart in my throat. I look up at the building in front of me, and see him against the sky, his silhouette so unmistakably Sherlock._

_“Goodbye, John.”_

_“No. Don’t.” I lunge forward to try to catch him, to try and stop it from happening. No matter how hard I try to run, I can’t seem to make any forward progress, and the movement of my limbs is agonizingly slow, as though I’m moving through taffy._

_He tips forward over the edge, plunging toward the pavement below._

_“No! Sherlock! Sherlock!_ Sherlock!” _I’m sobbing his name, and screaming, screaming, screaming. I stagger forward as strangers’ hands roll his body over, turning his blood-streaked face to the sky. His silver eyes gaze sightlessly upward, rimmed with blood._

_I can’t breathe, I’m trying to scream, but it feels like the wind has been knocked out of me. I stare at those empty eyes, knowing that my life is over, too. As I reach for him, longing to gather him into my arms, hands grasp at my arms, pulling me away, dragging me across a grassy moor, granite tors looming above me._

_“No, please, no, don’t take him away from me, no…” I’m sobbing as the hands inexorably drag me farther and farther away from Sherlock._

_Gentle voices are calling my name, trying to soothe me, “John…John…you can’t help him now…John…”_

_“No, please, no…please, God, let him live…don’t make me live without him…Sherlock, please don’t do this to me, Sherlock…Sherlock…”_

_“John, it’s all right…you’ll be all right…John…John…”_

_No…_

“John!” urgent hands are clutching at me, shaking me. “John! It’s all right. I’m here. John!”

I struggle to get away from the hands, scrambling backward, fighting the strange tangle around my legs, desperate to escape the hands that are holding me away from Sherlock.

 _“No!_ Let me go! Don’t take him away from me, _please…Sherlock!”_

 _“JOHN!”_ Sherlock’s deep voice bellows. “John, for God’s sake – it’s me! I’m here! _Wake UP!”_

_Sherlock._

Oh.

_A nightmare._

I’m trembling and gasping for breath like a racehorse, and I can feel the tears streaming down my face. I sag desperately into the warm, strong arms that wrap around me, holding me close. I press my nose into Sherlock’s neck, breathing in that elusive, tangy scent that is just _him_. It feels so good to be pressed against his strong, lithe body, to feel the silky-soft shirt that he’s always worn to bed, inside-out, so thin from repeated washings that it’s almost translucent in spots.

He pulls me closer, tighter, and he’s babbling something, over and over, but I can’t understand him because he’s buried his face in my shoulder. His body is shaking, almost spasming, much like my own. I pull back, alarmed, and snap on the small bedside lamp.

He’s sobbing. _Christ_.

“John, I’m so sorry, John…I’m so, _so_ sorry…I didn’t know…I never wanted to hurt you…I had no idea it would hurt you this _much_ _he was going to kill you I love you so much I couldn’t let anything happen to you you’re everything to me I love you I love you I’m sorry so sorry so sorry…”_

I seize his face in my hands, place a soft kiss on his lips.

“Ssshhhh…” I pull him down with me to the pillows, and we cling to each other, not speaking, just breathing together, sharing each other’s breath and existence. We lie together for ages, gazing into each other’s eyes, hardly moving, other than the soft movement of fingers across cheeks to brush away tears.

At long last, Sherlock speaks, his voice a husky whisper.

“I am so _very_ sorry, John. All I wanted was to keep you safe – and I think, in some ways, that I may have hurt you more than if I had allowed you to be killed. That was not my intention. Please…I know you can never forget what I did, but…do you think you could ever forgive me for doing it? Do we have a future together at all?”

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I stroke a wayward curl from his forehead, allowing my fingers to trail through the newly-dark locks. I’m not avoiding answering him – I’m simply trying to gather my thoughts.

“It’s not that I doubt my ability to forgive you, Sherlock. I’ve done nothing else with you since the day we met. I don’t like to think of myself as a doormat, but I have always found myself helpless to resist your decisions.” I pause, stroking his cheek thoughtfully.

“Ever since we became a couple, I’ve always imagined us growing old together. Even before we got together, I couldn’t imagine life without you. Of course, I can’t say that anymore – I can imagine it only too well.” Sherlock winces, and I give him a sad, little half-smile.

“I don’t want to feel that way ever again, Sherlock. I’m…not _alive_ when you’re not there. It was absolutely the worst feeling of my life, knowing that you were gone forever.”

“I’m so sorry –”

“Hush,” I tell him, pressing my fingers to his lips to stop his words. “I’ve heard your apology, and I need you to listen to me now.” He nods, those moonstone eyes locked onto mine.

“To be together forever like that – it requires commitment, and honesty. I thought you were committed to me, and I thought you’d never, ever lie to me, Sherlock. You proved me wrong on both counts when you jumped from that roof.”

“But –”

I stop his words with my fingertips again.

“I know now why you did it. I comprehend your reasons for feeling that you had to do it. But, you have to understand, it makes it hard for me to trust you to be honest, to be committed to our relationship, when you are capable of doing what you did.”

“I never meant to be dishonest with you, John…” He stops speaking when he sees my raised eyebrow.

“Let’s review the evidence, shall we?” I hold up one finger. “First point: You lied to me, and told me you were a fraud.” Another finger. “Point the second: You allowed me to believe that you were dead, for ten weeks, Sherlock. Ten _bloody_ weeks that felt to me as if the world had ended. You found time to conspire with Wiggins, as well as the brother that you profess to _hate_ , but you couldn’t bother to tell me. That _is_ a betrayal, Sherlock.”

Sherlock swallows hard, looking staggered, as though I had punched him in the gut.

“Point the third: You forced me _watch you commit suicide_. We won’t even mention how mad an idea it is to take someone who suffers from PTSD, who also happens to be the son of a suicide, and deliberately put him through a trauma like that. You are _damn_ lucky I didn’t climb up there and jump after you.”

Sherlock is staring at me, his expression shattered. He swallows hard, and nods his head slowly.

“I do understand that,” he says. “It is completely understandable that you would feel this way. But, John – I will never, ever voluntarily leave you again. _Never_.”

He pulls me close and kisses me softly, a gentle, lingering press of lips that is incredibly soothing, reassuring. Then he sits up, and swings his legs out of the bed to stand up.

“You should get some sleep, John. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day.” He stands, and turns to return to his room.

“Sherlock.”

He turns back to me.

“Yes, John?”

“You do realise that it’s a bit not good to say, ‘I’ll never leave you,’ then immediately jump up and _leave_ , right?”

He gapes wordlessly at me.

“I wonder just how many conversations we can actually _have_ about your sense of timing,” I say, as I throw the duvet back invitingly. “Come on, you mad bastard. I’ll sleep better if I can keep an eye on you.”

Sherlock smiles tentatively, as he slides beneath the duvet. He lies down beside me, and we turn onto our sides to face each other. We lie in silence for a moment, simply gazing into each other’s eyes.

“ John?”

“Yes?”

“How are you going to keep an eye on me if you are asleep?”

“Oh, shut it, you wanker – you know it’s only an expression.” I shove his shoulder playfully, and he chuckles in that rich baritone that drives me wild. “I meant, I’ll sleep better if I can get my hands on you.”

His eyebrow rises as the corner of his mouth quirks up, and I realise that my phrasing is really rather…suggestive.

“Shut up!”

“I didn’t say anything.”

We are quiet for a moment, then Sherlock says, softly, “Of course, if you _do_ want to get your hands on me…”

I look into those clear eyes, and he is smiling at me. Grinning back at him, I turn over, presenting my back to him in invitation. Sherlock wastes no time in spooning in behind me, his warm chest and arms wrapping around my back, making me feel warm and safe…and very, very loved.

_No more nightmares tonight._

 

oOoOo

 


	14. A Great Poem

oOoOo

 

**Chapter 14: A Great Poem**

 

oOoOo

**_“And your very flesh shall be a great poem.”_ **

**_―_ ** **_Walt Whitman_ **

oOoOo

 

I wake to a warm nose nuzzling against the back of my neck, and soft lips press teasingly against my skin. Arching back into a warm embrace, I savour the feeling of the strong arms wrapped around me. A rich voice like melted chocolate murmurs in my ear.

“Good morning, John.”

“Mmmmm…” I stretch lazily, then twist myself around to face Sherlock. “G’morning.”

Sherlock’s warm hand cups my jaw, thumb rasping gently over the stubble on my cheek. I mirror his action with my own hand, continuing the stroking motion down his long throat, allowing my fingers to trail beneath the inside-out neckline of his soft t-shirt before resting against the pulse-point in his neck.

Heavy-lidded moonstone eyes gaze into my own, and I feel his pulse quicken beneath my fingers. Sherlock leans forward to press those full lips to my own, and I pull him closer, opening my mouth to his gently exploring tongue. Slightly sour morning breath mingles with my own, but neither of us are put off in the least. We are simply wrapped up in each other, hands and lips and tongues lazily exploring and claiming, rediscovering the joy of waking up in each other’s arms. _It’s been so long…_

Sherlock’s graceful hands rove gently over my back, my ribs, and as things heat up, my arse. I can’t possibly complain, as I’m doing the same thing to him, relishing the feeling of his pliant body beneath my hands. Slim fingers slip beneath my t-shirt, teasing their way up to test the skin on my belly.

_Am I ready for this?_

_God, yes._

Laughing softly, I tug suggestively at the hem of his shirt, and he beams as he rolls back to peel it over his head and throw it aside. I strip mine off at the same time, and then we are back in each other’s arms, enjoying the sensation of skin on skin.

The slow slide of bodies is delicious, and our breathing quickens, grows heavier. I kiss along Sherlock’s jaw and down his throat, reveling in that glorious, long column of skin. Reaching the absolutely irresistible mole on the side of his neck, I lave my tongue over it, savouring the salty tang of his skin, and Sherlock quivers beneath my touch.

I trail my tongue down to his collarbone, then suck a mark just above it. I pull back to study the dark lovebite, pleased with the effect against his ivory skin. Sherlock pulls me back in for another long, slow kiss, all soft tongues and warm breath. When we finally come up for air, his luminous eyes are dark with arousal.

Sherlock dips his head to tease at my nipple with his tongue. Humming with pleasure, I grip his sides, enjoying the satiny feel of warm skin beneath my fingers, even as I wince at the prominence of the ribs below. Slipping a hand into the back of his grey pyjama bottoms, I discover that his arse is nearly as plush as ever, and I squeeze a generous handful appreciatively.

Sherlock groans and rolls me onto my back, settling himself between my legs, his body stretched atop mine. He feathers teasing kisses and nips along my jawline and down my neck, while a deliciously hot, hard pressure grinds against my groin. It feels wonderful, but I need more. I pull on the drawstring of his pyjama bottoms, and give them a tug downward. Sherlock kneels up long enough to push them to his knees along with his pants, and tugs mine down as well, before he lies back down and we both kick our legs free.

Gloriously naked now, Sherlock stretches back on top of me, and we both groan at the amazing sensation of our bare bodies pressed against each other. Sherlock’s mouth is insistent on my own as we begin to move together in a slow, undulating rhythm as old as time. It is incredibly quiet in this house – the only sounds are the soft, wet sounds of our mouths on each other, the whisper of skin against skin, and small, wordless moans of encouragement.

As the sweat and pre-ejaculate builds between us, Sherlock’s hard cock slides deliciously against mine. To increase the friction, I twine my legs around his, and we rock together, sliding slickly against each other. I bury my nose in his shoulder, breathing in that elusive citrusy tang of his scent. Sherlock slides his hands beneath my shoulders, tightening his grip, and groans into my neck, that rumbling baritone intensifying my desire.

He raises his head to gaze into my eyes. The intimacy of the eye contact is so intense, but I don’t look away. Instead, I tighten my arms around him, undulating my hips harder against his. The heat building in my groin tells me that I won’t last much longer, but our breathing is coming in gasps now, and I know that Sherlock is right there with me.

This feels so amazing, and I don’t want it to ever end. My focus has narrowed down to this space between us, this sacred intimacy. All of the pain and grief that has consumed me for so long has been driven back, and the love I feel for Sherlock at this moment is all-encompassing. Sherlock’s eyes glow with emotion, and I can see that he feels the same.

The building tension is reaching its peak, and Sherlock finally breaks the intense eye contact to bury his face in my neck. He groans, “John…I love you so much…oh, John, I’m so close…”

“Yes, Sherlock,” I murmur in his ear. “I want to see you…come for me…”

“John!” he cries out, spilling across my belly. Watching his otherworldly face, glorying in the swanlike curve of his neck as he throws his head back in ecstasy, I am lost. With a soft cry, I tumble over the edge after him. We collapse against each other, panting, as we lie tangled in each other’s arms.

I lift my hand to stroke through the wild tumble of damp curls, and Sherlock rolls us onto our sides. He strokes his hands up and down my side, then smiles into my eyes as he pulls me close for a long, lingering kiss.

 _God, I love this man._ I know we still have a lot to work through, and it will probably be a very long time before I feel ready to trust him to make _(and understand)_ a real commitment – but it feels like we’ve made good progress at starting over.

 

oOoOo

 

I emerge from the shower to find a delightfully still-nude Sherlock, sprawled lazily across my bed.

“Oi, lazybones – don’t you have a gameplan to reveal to me this morning? Stop faffing about and get a shower.”

“Mmmmm…” Sherlock stretches and rolls over, obviously doing his best to look enticing. _(He’s quite successful at his endeavor.)_ “Come and make me, _Captain_ Watson.”

 “If that’s what it takes…” I chuckle, untying the sash to my dressing gown as I climb onto the bed. Straddling his hips, I lean down to kiss him.

Just as our lips meet, there’s a sharp rap on the door.

“Ignore that,” Sherlock murmurs against my mouth. Giggling, we deepen the kiss – then freeze at the definite sounds of the door opening.

We hear an unmistakable _“Ahem,”_ from Mycroft.

Mindful of Sherlock’s nudity as well as my wide-open dressing gown, I remain in my current position, crouched astride Sherlock. I simply drop my forehead against his chest in mortification, gritting my teeth to keep from shouting abuse at his brother.

“Pardon the intrusion, gentlemen,” says the cool voice behind me. Mycroft would probably sound equally collected if he walked in on a cabinet meeting, a drugs bust, a stitch-and-bitch session, or an orgy. _Bastard._

Sherlock glares over my shoulder at his brother.

“It certainly _is_ an intrusion, Mycroft,” he bites out. “Most people understand the concept of a closed door. Perhaps it has escaped your powers of observation that John and I are otherwise occupied at present.”

“Obviously, Sherlock,” is the chilly reply. “I did knock, and no one answered. However, your two…shall we say, _associates…_ have arrived, and have brought along a rather unusual…contraption. I assumed you would wish to see them as soon as possible.”

“Fantastic!” cries Sherlock, forgetting his irritation in his eagerness. He bodily pushes me off of him, giving poor Mycroft quite the eyeful as he springs from the bed, heedless of his nudity. I scramble to close and tie my dressing gown before I can make the unexpected show a double feature.

Mycroft turns calmly away from us, focusing on the wall sconces as though they are a fascinating museum exhibit.

“Have the decency to shower before you come downstairs, Sherlock. I’ll alert your…guests…that you’ll be down directly.”

Sherlock mutters something unintelligible as he stalks to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Mycroft steps out of the door, then glances back at me. “It’s good to see that you have a forgiving heart, Doctor Watson.”

I have no idea how to answer him. As I’m trying to formulate a response, he smiles slightly, and closes the door.

 

oOoOo

 

Sherlock has finished his shower, and I am dressed and waiting for him. I stand in the doorway while he shaves and we cheerfully exchange a multitude of insults about Mycroft. Then the text alert on Sherlock’s mobile chimes.

 “Pass me my phone, will you, John?”

I sigh. “Didn’t take me long to become your errand boy again, did it, love?”

Nevertheless, I step into his room for the phone.

“Where is it, Sherlock?”

“Jacket pocket.”

“Well, at least you’re not wearing it this time,” I laugh, as I spot his leather jacket and yesterday’s jeans draped over the back of a straight-backed chair by the window. I lift the jeans out of the way to reach the jacket underneath, and groan as I hear a deluge of small items tumble to the floor.

“Damn it!”

“What?” calls Sherlock from the bathroom.

“Nothing, nothing – I just spilled your things everywhere.” _Very smooth, Watson._ “I’ll get them, don’t worry.”

After retrieving his phone, I stoop to pick up the detritus from Sherlock’s pockets that is scattered across the rug.

_Good lord. No wonder he keeps fiddling with the items in his pocket – he has enough stuff here to stock an ironmonger’s shop._

I start gathering the myriad of items from the floor. Sherlock’s pocket magnifier, several zip ties, some coins, the little drawstring bag he’s been carting around ever since Dartmoor, and a small jackknife fill my hands. In my attempt to juggle everything, I drop the phone, then the magnifier, then the drawstring bag.

“ _Damn_ it!”

The contents of the little bag roll across the floor, settling with a jingle in a sunbeam falling through a crack in the curtains.

_Oh._

_Oh, my God._

Gleaming in the shaft of sunlight are two wide silver rings. I pick them up, and notice the soft, mellow shimmer of the metal, probably platinum, as the sunlight plays over the surface. I can’t help but admire the fine craftsmanship, the elegantly detailed, engraved Arabic characters that circumscribe the bands.

_Wedding rings._

Oh, _Christ_.

It’s too much. I’m not ready to deal with this.

“John!” calls Sherlock, as he steps swiftly back into the room, still swathed in his towel, “Don’t worry about picking that stuff up, just leave it –” He stops dead when he sees my expression, and the rings in my palm, gleaming in the shaft of sunlight.

“Oh.”

He takes a tentative step toward me, biting his lip.

“Errm…I did not intend for you to see those yet, John.” He steps closer still, hands slightly raised, the way one might approach a cornered animal.

“I had them specially made in Kandahar last month, when I was pursuing a weapons trafficker in Moriarty’s network. I was planning… I was hoping…” he trails off as he takes in the expression on my face.

I’m not sure what he sees there. I’m feeling such a tumult of different emotions, and can’t possibly sort through them all. All I know is, the peaceful feeling of connection, of intimacy, has fled, replaced by waves of panic and longing that I can’t explain. To tie my life to someone who could put me through such an excruciating ordeal – I’m just not sure I have the emotional reserves to take that kind of risk anymore.

I was so happy this morning, allowing myself to simply shove those issues aside in the joy of having my lover back again. Now, all of those weeks of misery and grief are crashing around me like waves in a storm, and I can’t deal with it.

Sherlock reaches toward me.

“John –”

_“Don’t.”_

I step around him, open the door and step out onto the landing.

“John!”

“Not now, Sherlock. Get dressed – we have an ambush to plan.”

I make my way swiftly down the stairs, never glancing back at the stricken figure that I know is standing behind me on the landing.

 

oOoOo

 

 

When I reach the ground floor, I see Mrs Hudson standing in the entrance hall, talking to Wiggins and a young man with long, decidedly unkempt hair. They are both obviously ill at ease in such opulent surroundings, and I can see that Mrs Hudson is making an effort to make them more comfortable.

“Wotcher, Doctor Watson,” chirps Wiggins, with a cheeky smile. “Nice to see you looking a bit less wonky today.”

I fight to swallow down my inner turmoil about the rings – and Sherlock – for later examination. I force a smile at Wiggins and her scruffy friend.

“Thank you, Wiggins,” I reply, “you’re looking well.”

“Cheers, Doc.” She looks behind me, expectantly. “Where’s Mr Holmes, then?”

“I assume you mean Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson says. “I only ask because this is the home of his brother, Mr Mycroft Holmes.”

“Blimey, that was his brother. There’s _two_ of ‘em,” Wiggins’ companion whispers to her. “That’s a turn-up, innit?”

I glance at him, taking in his tangled hair and gaunt face, the worn, ragged clothing that he wears. Clearly, he is another of Sherlock’s homeless network, but he doesn’t seem as tidy and self-possessed as Wiggins does. Still, despite the unkempt appearance and yobbo accent, there’s a decided aura of intelligence about him, a sharpness in his eyes that gives him a “mad scientist” air. I put out my hand to shake his.

“How do you do,” I say. “I’m John Watson, and you are…?”

Wiggins hastens to introduce us.

“Doctor John Watson, this is Edwin Haley,” she says. Edwin tentatively takes my hand and shakes it. He’s wearing leather gloves with the fingers cut off. “Edwin ‘ere is the brains behind Mr Holmes’ secret weapon.”

The thought of _anyone_ being “the brains” behind a plan of Sherlock’s is mind-boggling.

“And what is this ‘secret weapon,’ exactly?” I ask.

“Errr…why don’t we all go into the sitting room, while we wait for Mr Holmes?” interrupts Mrs Hudson, before he can answer me. “I assume Sherlock will be down shortly, John dear?”

“I honestly don’t know, Mrs Hudson,” I reply, briefly pinching the bridge of my nose and closing my eyes as I remember the desolate face that I left upstairs. I sigh and rub my face briefly, before turning back to Wiggins and Edwin.

“Mrs Hudson is right, won’t you come in and have a seat?” I gesture for them to accompany Mrs Hudson and me to the sitting room.

As I round the double doorway, I glance into the room – and am stunned to see Sherlock already there, dressed in a suit, stretched out on the settee in his classic thinking pose; eyes closed, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

“Sherlock, how the bloody hell did you get down here without us seeing you?” I demand, striding toward him. His head turns slowly toward me, and his eyes fly open in a strange, sudden manner, but the steely grey gaze stares blankly beyond us, instead of focusing on me. There’s something wrong, weirdly wrong, with his face, and _suddenly I’m back on the pavement outside of St Bart’s, staring down into an oddly distorted face, streaked with blood, that stares unseeing at the sky._

_Jesus._

“Sherlock?” I whisper, as I take a shaky step forward. “Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?” Sherlock’s rich, unmistakable baritone comes from _behind_ me.

Shaking, I whirl to find Sherlock in the doorway, casually dressed in a midnight-blue shirt and dark jeans. Whipping back around, I stare at the oddly-staring Sherlock on the settee, then back at my boyfriend in the doorway.

“What the _bloody_ fuck?”

 

oOoOo

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author note: Thank you to the many wonderful readers who have read and left reviews. Seeing your enjoyment of my fic makes me so happy, and encourages me to keep going. Thanks to Kyer, Orchid, AnnOMalley, thegingerintheback, catahoula, SpicySweet, ATONAU, Mairead221B, snogandagrope, Nate_T_Erato, Holo_Bayliss, Stayawhile, FallenAngel1129, kornmod/OrmondSacker, NyxReaper, thebookworm214, CarrieKitty1978, Cody_Thomas, kestrel337, Quend, dry, jbs_teeth, rowan tree, Sherli-Holmes, and Toby+Wiggins. Also, thank you to those who have sent me comments on FF, Tumblr and LJ. I won't list your names here, to keep your privacy, but I thank you for taking the time to do it.
> 
> Special thanks to my wonderful beta, Skyfullofstars, who makes these stories much better, and the lovely Hanako Hayashi, who translates them into French. You are both so amazing. Thank you, also, to abundantlyqueer, AfroGeekGoddess, and my RL friend Edwin, who have helped with details about Moran. He's going to be much better because of you guys.
> 
> More coming soon. Thanks for sticking with me!


	15. The Man Behind The Curtain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: this chapter contains references to child prostitution/abuse and references to homophobia

oOoOo

 

**Chapter 15: The Man Behind The Curtain**

 

oOoOo

**_“Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!”_ **

**_―_ ** **_L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_ **

oOoOo

 

My heart pounds wildly in my chest, I can’t breathe, and everything around the edge of my vision has gone a sparkly grey. I stagger a bit as the room seems to spin.

“John!”

Sherlock – the one in the doorway – lunges forward to seize my elbow. Barking, _“Get out,”_ at the others, he manhandles me into a nearby wing chair. He drops to his knees in front of me, takes my face in his hands and presses his forehead to mine.

“Breathe, John. It’s just the decoy…Deep breaths, John. I didn’t realize it would already be in here, I never would have put you through that after everything...For God’s sake, breathe!”

My fingers are fisted tightly in his silk shirt, and my head is pressed so hard against Sherlock’s that it hurts. I struggle to draw a breath, then another, and now I can’t stop panting, gasping for breath, and _I can’t get enough air, there’s no air in the room…_

I become aware that Sherlock is still speaking to me, murmuring in a soothing, nonstop monologue, and his fingers are stroking my hair and the nape of my neck.

“…here, I’m here, John, and I’ll never leave you again, we just have to get through with Moran, then we can go back to Baker Street and be together until we’re old men, then we can retire to some country cottage, John, and you can pester me to get more sleep and you can feed me up,  and we’ll bicker over the newspaper, and I’ll keep bees, and we’ll have our own honey with every meal, and we’ll go for long walks together and laugh, and it will be so good, John, you’ll see, I’ll make it up to you, I’ll prove to you that I can be your husband, that we’re so much more together than as individuals, you’ll be fine, and we’ll be _amazing_ , remember?”

I manage to loosen my grip on his shirt and ease the pressure on his forehead. I force myself to open my eyes, and find myself staring into those exquisite, seaglass eyes. Sherlock slides a hand down to cup my cheek, then gently lifts my chin to press soft lips to mine in a tender kiss.

“Sherlock,” I manage to gasp out, “What the bloody hell is going on?”

I pull back a bit, releasing his shirt altogether, suddenly remembering Mrs Hudson, Wiggins and Edwin. I straighten up, trying to collect my dignity – and realise that Sherlock and I are alone in the room, except for that…that… _thing_ …on the settee.

Sherlock strokes my sweat-damp hair again, saying, “I sent them out as I was getting you to the chair, John. I know you don’t like to lose control in front of others.”

“ _You_ stuck around to witness it, though.” My voice is too shaky to sound as cross as I’d like. The fact is, I’m relieved he stayed and anchored me. Panic attacks like this are very difficult to pull out of on my own – I simply dissociate and shut down, sometimes for hours, like I did after Sherlock…fell…

“Don’t be obtuse, John. You needed me to ground you. I was the original source of the trauma, and my effigy over there was the trigger for your flashback. It was a natural solution to stay in close contact with you, letting you focus on the fact that I’m here, I’m alive, I’m _real_.” He pauses for a moment, then adds, softly, “I’m so sorry, John. If I could have done things differently –”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ve been over that,” I say, brusquely, gently pushing him back so I can stand. “We don’t have time for all of that right now.”

Sherlock slowly rises to his feet as well, and reaches out to grip my shoulders.

“All right?”

I nod shakily. “Yeah.”

“Ready to meet my doppelgänger, John?” he asks, looking closely at my eyes, monitoring my reaction.

“Okay, seriously, what the fuck?”

Sherlock grins wolfishly.

“I should let Edwin show it off – it’s his creation, really.” He lets go of me, reaches to open the door. “Edwin! Get in here!”

Mrs Hudson is the first one to appear at the door.

“Really, Sherlock, don’t shout at the boy, I think you frightened him a bit.” There’s that motherly streak showing again – give Mrs Hudson a waif and she’s an absolute marshmallow, can’t protect them enough. I guess Edwin’s bedraggled appearance has roused her inner mother hen.

“Edwin!” bellows Sherlock, ignoring Mrs Hudson’s reprimand. “You already caused Dr Watson enough stress – get in here and show off your masterwork!”

First Wiggins, then Edwin, appears behind Mrs Hudson, and it’s obvious that Mrs Hudson is right. Edwin looks like a whipped dog, walleyed and wary. Wiggins looks concerned, but not intimidated. I suppose that, if Sherlock’s account of her history is anything to go by, not much can scare her.

Edwin steps cautiously into the room, and I note that he is holding a ridiculously light and slim laptop in his hands. Combined with his scruffy clothing, I can only imagine how quickly he and his laptop would attract the attention of the police.

“Are…are you all right, Doctor Watson?” he asks, shooting a nervous look at Sherlock before he turns to face me.

I take a deep breath, then slowly let it out.

“Yes, I am – well, I will be.”

“Sorry ‘bout givin’ you a bit of a fright, Doc,” he says, earnestly. “Mrs Hudson and that posh bloke – pardon me, the other Mister Holmes – both saw me bring it in, so there was no chance to test it out on them. I just wanted to see if I could fool a person into thinkin’ it was Mister Holmes. I didn’t realise it’d give ye such a turn.”

“It’s all right, Edwin,” I say, noticing suddenly how impossibly young he looks, despite his streetwise appearance.

“Yes, yes, John’s fine, stop fussing,” Sherlock interrupts. “Edwin, introduce Doctor Watson to my understudy for tonight’s performance.” He looks pointedly at us, then at the settee.

I’ve been avoiding looking at it, but everyone’s attention turns toward the settee, so I reluctantly do the same.

Stretched across the cushions, immaculately dressed in one of Sherlock’s bespoke suits, is the _not-Sherlock_. It’s astounding in every detail. Long, lanky limbs clad in expensive wool repose the length of the settee, slim, pale artists fingers steeple together beneath a perfect chin. Eyes closed, the face looks amazing, the splendid planes and angles of Sherlock’s unearthly visage seem perfect at first.

Yet, the longer I look, the more I see that it just isn’t… _right_. There’s something slightly off about the proportions of the face, nothing I could name, exactly. It just isn’t Sherlock.

Suddenly, not-Sherlock’s eyes open, and despite expecting it this time, my heart pounds in sudden panic. _Empty grey eyes staring at an empty grey sky_ …

 _My_ Sherlock slips his elegant fingers into mine, twining them together in a reassuring grip. And I need it – when not-Sherlock’s hands drop from his chin and separate to rest flat on his chest, adrenaline surges through me, and I have to fight to keep it together.

“’Ere’s ‘ow it’s done, Doctor Watson,” says Edwin, and I see that he has the laptop open, and while balancing it on one hand like a waiter holding a tray, he uses the other to type. He nods to direct my attention toward the decoy, and I look back to see the head turn from side to side, slightly jerkily, and the eyes blink.

The deeply disturbing feeling increases, and I have to look away. To distract myself, I look at Edwin, who seems more confident now that he is showing off his creation. His fingers fly over the silver laptop, and while it should still look odd and incongruous with his straggly appearance, somehow it doesn’t any longer. Looking at him, I see a glimpse of a brilliant boy with extraordinary talent, and I wonder how a kid like this has wound up as a member of Sherlock’s homeless network.

“How did you do this, Edwin?” I ask.

“I took a mould o’ Mr Holmes’ face and ‘ands, and used that to sculpt the animated parts of the replica,” he says, “And o’ course, under that face and ‘ands are a bunch o’ servos and motors. As for the rest – Mr Holmes, if ye ever want to change careers, ye’d be a perfect fashion model. Finding a mannequin in your size was easy peasy.”

The sense of nausea and dizziness subsides a bit, and I let go of Sherlock to step closer to Edwin’s creation, looking closely. The amount of intricate detail that Edwin has crafted is extraordinary. The skin tones are beautifully done, the fine lines around the eyes are almost perfect, and the lips are a work of art.

The hands are especially remarkable, perfect in every detail. As I watch, Edwin puts them through their motions, and they lift up, press together, separate again, and even fold together, fingers interlaced. The movement of the hands is a bit stiff and robotic, but if I didn’t know Sherlock’s elegant grace like the back of my hand, I’m not sure I’d notice on casual observation.

Edwin seems a bit unhappy, though, and keeps turning the head side-to-side, then nodding it up and down.

“Still a bit jerky,” he mutters to himself. He looks up at Sherlock. “Is there somewhere I could lay ‘im out and work on ‘im a bit? Only, ‘e needs a bit o’ fine tuning, smooth out the motions.”

“You can work on it in the library, Mr Haley,” says a new voice, and we look up to see Mycroft in the doorway.

Edwin seems a bit nervous, even frightened of Mycroft. I understand; Mycroft can be intimidating as hell.

“Right…okay then,” he says after a moment. “Wiggins, can ye grab my case from the corner there?”

He closes the laptop and hands it over for Wiggins to carry in her free hand. Then he steps over to the sofa and lifts not-Sherlock into his arms like a bride, and turns toward Mycroft.

“Where’s the library, then?” he asks. Mycroft’s eyebrows lift, and he gestures for Edwin to precede him through the doorway.

The next moment, only Sherlock, Mrs Hudson and I are left in the sitting room. Mrs Hudson says, “Sherlock…this plan of yours…you’re not going to be putting that poor boy in any danger, are you?”

“None, Mrs Hudson. Edwin will be operating the decoy from a remote location.”

She sighs in relief. “Thanks be to goodness for that, then.” She turns toward the door, saying, “I believe I need a cuppa after all that. Can I bring you anything, boys?”

“Tea would be lovely, thanks Mrs Hudson,” I say, suddenly aware of how desperately I could use a cuppa of my own. She bustles from the room, and Sherlock reaches for my hand.

“You should sit down, John,” he says. “We have a lot to talk about.”

_Understatement of the year._

oOoOo

 

“Mycroft’s intelligence network indicates that Moran and Adair are in London, searching for me,” says Sherlock, as he sips a steaming cup of tea.

We are seated on the settee that so recently held the not-Sherlock decoy. Mrs Hudson has left us not only tea, but a plate of pastries as well. I’ve already devoured a cream cheese brioche, and am now blissfully enjoying a chocolate éclair.

“How do you know that tonight is the night?” I ask, as I place another éclair on a plate. I pointedly hand the plate to Sherlock, and he just as deliberately puts it down on the coffee table. I sigh in temporary defeat.

“We know they are searching for me. Now it’s simply a matter of leaving a trail that will lead Moran back to Baker Street tonight. My homeless network is already on it.”

I reach for Sherlock’s abandoned éclair and take an ostentatious bite, waiting until Sherlock is watching me to lick the cream from my upper lip. His eyes dilate a bit as I lick the chocolate from my fingers.

“Okay, that makes sense, I guess.” I take another small bite and allow myself a little moan of pleasure, as I set it back down. I hide my triumph as Sherlock reaches for the éclair and begins to eat it, and then am mesmerised by the way his pink tongue chases the cream on his own lip.

Shaking myself, I ask, “How does the decoy figure in?”

Sherlock smirks, perfectly aware of the direction my thoughts have taken. _Never mind – I still tricked him into eating breakfast._

“We’re going to use the decoy to bait the trap,” Sherlock says, “and then we’ll be waiting to take Moran and Adair.”

I frown at this, thinking about logistics.

“So, how on earth do you expect to fool Moran with a Sherlock Holmes that can’t walk or talk? Surely he will be able to smell a rat.”

“Smell a rat – really, John, the phrases you use.” Sherlock snorts. “It is quite well known that I spend long hours lying still, organising my thoughts. If I’m lying on the sofa in 221B, clearly visible through an open window, Moran won’t find it unusual at all. He will have studied my habits, like any good hunter researching his quarry.”

The plan seems like a good one, but I can’t help but worry about how we will execute it. What’s to keep Moran from picking us off as we enter the building? Won’t he notice that we are carrying an extra Sherlock? Why is Sherlock so certain that Edwin won’t have sold him out to Moran? Or Wiggins, for that matter? I have to ask.

“Sherlock, there are a lot of people in on your plan, now. I know you have to trust somebody, but what makes you think we can trust Edwin?”

“Wiggins found Edwin and took him under her wing about a year ago. She knows him. She trusts him.”

“And that’s good enough for you, the man who always needs evidence?”

Sherlock sighs, and sets down the delicate cup and saucer on the immaculately polished coffee table in front of us.

“Of course not, John. I know everything there is to know about Edwin Haley. He’s extraordinarily intelligent and extremely talented, as you have seen. He spent his young life being tutored and indulged in his every intellectual or artistic interest. He was always top of his form, skipped several forms altogether, was always involved in STEM and AV clubs, and his parents couldn’t possibly have done any more for his education than they did.”

“How is a kid like _that_ living on the street?” I think about his distinctly unkempt appearance, tangled, unwashed hair, clothes torn and dirty. It’s hard to reconcile that image with the boy Sherlock is describing.

“Oh, John, surely you of all people don’t need me to tell you what happened. You lived through it with your sister.”

 “Christ…are you telling me that Edwin’s parents threw him out for being _gay?”_

“It’s certainly not a new story, John.”

I’m silent for a moment, remembering _the screaming matches, the declarations of ‘No Daughter Of Mine,’ the horror of finding my father’s body along with a note declaring that Harry was to blame, watching my mother grow so remote and distant that it was like living with a stranger, watching Harry lose herself in booze and women as a means of dealing with her misplaced guilt…_

_No – definitely not a new story._

I pour two more cups of tea, and add milk to mine, watching as Sherlock puts an obscene amount of sugar in his own cup.

“Wiggins found Edwin after he had resorted to prostitution and had been beaten by a…customer,” Sherlock says. “She took him under her wing, and when she discovered his talents, brought him to my attention. Having an artist and expert of his caliber is an advantage in my field of work.”

“In exchange for Edwin’s assistance on this project, Mycroft has agreed to help me arrange for Edwin to attend the University of Strathclyde in Glasgow’s National Centre for Prosthetics and Orthotics,” Sherlock continues. “I’m fairly certain of Edwin’s loyalty.”

“Fine, I can certainly see your point there,” I concede. “But what about _Wiggins_ , for that matter? I know you said she’s loyal to you, but…she spies on people for money. Why do you think you’re exempt from that?”

“I am.”

_Sherlock’s serene self-confidence can be so infuriating._

“How can you be sure?”

 “I’m quite certain that I will always have Wiggins’ loyalty. I did a certain…favour…for her, and she’s not the sort to forget a thing like that.”

“What sort of favour?”

Sherlock sips his tea, and is silent for a moment, considering my question. Finally, he speaks.

“Her surname was Macdonald, John.”

I wait for more, but he’s silent.

“…And?”

“I provided evidence against a certain person of some…repute, who shared the surname, as well as DNA, with Wiggins.”

He’s giving me his patented _do keep up, John_ face. I study him, baffled for a moment, then the penny drops.

“You don’t mean, _Dennis_ Macdonald?”

“Yes.”

_Jesus. Dennis Macdonald._

_Eight years ago, the biggest news story in London was the one of Dennis Macdonald, who was discovered to be running a child prostitution and pornography ring out of his basement.  The children – his biological children as well as others picked up in illegal adoptions – were living in the most horrifying conditions imaginable. It was all that the papers could talk about; the brutal squalor of the “dungeon” where they were kept, the violent acts recorded in the professional-quality video studio, the horrifying physical and mental condition of the children rescued._

_And_ Wiggins _must have been one of them. How had she escaped? And Sherlock had been responsible for securing the conviction of that monster – how did I not_ know _this?_

“You…Sherlock, how is it that _no one_ knows that _you_ are responsible for solving that case?”

“I wasn’t looking for fame, John,” he murmurs, studying the empty teacup cradled in his elegant fingers, as though he could divine his fortune in the dregs. “I was seeking a bit of justice.”

How anyone could ever believe Sherlock’s sociopath persona is beyond me. His loyalty and passion for the few he allows into his life is amazing. He would do anything for them.

He would _die_ for them.

For _me_.

I set my cup down, reach for Sherlock’s hand, and turn him to face me.

“Sherlock,” I say, as I reach up to cradle his face in my hands, gazing into those endless eyes, “I’m sorry about overreacting earlier, when we were upstairs. It caught me by surprise, and I wasn’t ready to process that idea.”

Sherlock is staring at me, an expression on his face that I haven’t seen since that first night that we spent together; so open, trusting and vulnerable. I stroke my thumb across his lips, gently, and his eyelids droop fractionally, as his pupils dilate and he unconsciously leans a bit closer.

“Sherlock, I was wondering –”

“Beg your pardon, gents, but I’m needin’ Mr Holmes for a mo’,” says Edwin from the open doorway.

_Damn it._

oOoOo

 


	16. One More Time

oOoOo

 

**Chapter 16: One More Time**

 

oOoOo

**_“Have enough courage to trust love one more time. And always one more time.”_ **

**_―_ ** **_Maya Angelou_ **

oOoOo

 

Sherlock turns toward Edwin, wearing an obvious expression of irritation at the interruption.

“ _Yes_ , Edwin?”

Edwin flinches a bit at Sherlock’s tone. As irritated as I am at being thwarted in my attempt to discuss something incredibly important, I can’t help but feel sorry for the boy. He clears his throat, and replies in a rather timid voice.

“Mr Holmes, I think I’ve got the movement as smooth as it’s goin’ ta get. Mind takin’ a quick gander to make sure everythin’s all right?”

“Of course,” says Sherlock, leaping to his feet with a complete change of attitude. He starts to follow Edwin to the study, then turns back to me. “Coming, John?”

I really, _really_ don’t want to see that thing again.

“I don’t think so, Sherlock – I’ll be upstairs.” I pause, then hastily add, “Unless you need me to help you, that is.”

He smiles, and I know that he understands how deeply unsettling I find the decoy.

“I’ll always need you, John,” he says, “but I think we have this under control, if you’d rather go upstairs for a bit.” He steps back toward me, bends to kiss me softly on the cheek. The distinctive tang of his scent fills me with an unexpected yearning to drag him off upstairs, strip him of his blue shirt and jeans, and simply hide away in that bed forever. My eyes close involuntarily for a moment.

“Thanks, love.”

He gives me that crooked, charming half-smile that I’ve never seen him share with anyone else.

“You’re welcome, John.”

 

oOoOo

 

Back in the bedrooms upstairs, I discover that Mycroft’s housekeeper has made the bed with fresh linens. My face burns as I remember the state we left the bed in. I soothe my embarrassment with the knowledge that any employee of Mycroft’s will certainly, by necessity, be the soul of discretion, and will never say a word to us about it.

My things have been tidied away. I wander through the bathroom into Sherlock’s room, noticing that his clothes have all been put away as well, and his odd assortment of items from his pockets placed conspicuously on the bureau. Spotting the drawstring bag, I cross to the bureau and pick it up, tipping its contents into my palm.

I gaze at the finely crafted Arabic characters against the soft, lustrous gleam of the platinum bands, and _I remember lying sprawled naked across the bed, incredibly aroused, waiting for Sherlock as he rummages through my bedside table drawer for a bottle of lube._

_“Good God, John, the amount of useless items in here…” Sherlock starts tossing random objects from the drawer over his shoulder in his quest for the elusive bottle._

_“Oi! Watch it!” I protest, as my father’s old pocket watch bounces onto the bed, followed by a slim volume of poetry and a small jar of lip balm. I scramble up to check his activity before he breaks something._

_“Here, let me find it, you lunatic!” Irritated, I nudge him aside, and locate the bottle of lube. I realise that his utter disregard for my things has taken the wind out of my sails, metaphorically speaking. I drop the bottle of lube back into the drawer with a sigh, and hear Sherlock’s echoing sigh of frustration behind me. Ignoring him, I pull on my discarded pants; then I sit down on the side of the bed, scooping up the pocket watch to check for damage._

_I place the watch carefully back in the drawer, toss in the jar of lip balm and bend to collect a few small items from the floor as well. As I restore them to the drawer, I glance over my shoulder, expecting to see Sherlock sulking. Instead, I find him propped up on his elbow on the bed, holding the little poetry book. He looks at me like a puzzle he wants to solve._

_“You read Arabic?”_

_“Persian,” I correct him, extending my hand for him to return the book. “Dari Persian, to be precise.” Sherlock holds the book out of my reach, opening and leafing through it._

_“It’s poetry?” he asks, as he turns the pages. “And a gift from a woman, an Afghan woman, but not local, very well-educated; a romantic relationship, but she broke it off. Who was she?”_

_“How –?” I shake my head at his amazing observational skills. “Yes, right – she was an Afghan woman, you’re right; Laila was a surgeon in the military hospital where I was stationed in Helmand Province. She was local, you were wrong about that – born in Laškar Gāh, but moved to England as a child. She dumped me when I decided to transfer to being a combat medic – said that it was proof positive that I should be sectioned.”_

_“Why did you keep the book? Why here in this drawer, so close to you? You’ve never mentioned her, John. Was she important to you?” The jealousy in Sherlock’s voice makes me smile a bit._

_“No more so than any of the other romances I had over there.” I reach over to stroke his cheek reassuringly, and he leans into my palm. “No, I kept the book because of the poems, actually. This book is actually translated from English, all poems written by women – and is obviously a banned book in Afghanistan.”_

_Sherlock’s eyebrows lift, and he pages through it._

_“You used to read this page a great deal. What does it say?”_

_I take the book, and read a bit from the short poem._

“Life must go on  
Though good men die...  
Life must go on;  
I forget just why.”*

_Sherlock’s eyes pierce through me, and I know he can read my remembered despair in my face and posture. He reaches out, takes the book back, and turns to another page._

_“You’ve read this one a great deal lately. What does it say?”_

_I look at the page, and smile at him._

_“I started reading this one when you and I first got together. Somehow, it says everything I feel for you, right here in two lines.” I try to clear my throat of the sudden lump that has risen in it, and read the stanza._

 “In all the world, there is no heart for me like yours.  
In all the world, there is no love for you like mine.”**

_I set down the book; lift my eyes to his. Sherlock reaches out to draw me down into his arms, pulls me close, and kisses me softly, reverently._

_“That’s how I feel, as well, John,” he whispers. “How odd that some writer that we’ve never met knew exactly how to put it into words.” He kisses me again, and we find that no more words are needed at all._

Remembering that conversation, I smile as I admire the elegant engraving of the writing on the two matching bands.  My Dari might be a bit rustier now than it was then, but I have no trouble at all reading these rings:

 

قلبی برای من مثل مال شما  
نه عشق برای شما مثل من هست

_No heart for me like yours,  
no love for you like mine._

_ _

 

 

 

oOoOo

 

“John, are you ready –?”

Sherlock stops abruptly in the doorway, taking in the sight of me sitting in the chair before the gas fireplace, gazing at the firelight reflecting from the rings in my hand.

“John?” It is a desperate whisper.

I look up at him, meeting the sheer fear in his silvery gaze. I reach out a hand for him, and he approaches swiftly, dropping gracefully into the seat facing mine, and takes the proffered hand.

“Edwin interrupted me earlier, Sherlock,” I say, gazing seriously into his eyes. “I was about to ask you a question.”

Sherlock’s crooked little sideways smile appears.

“Seems to me that _I_ was about to ask a question a while before that, John, and _you_ interrupted.”

Guilt for the way I stormed out on him surges up, but I tamp it ruthlessly back down. The feelings of betrayal and doubt were genuine, and I won’t pretend that my fears are groundless. I frown a bit at Sherlock, and his smile vanishes in an instant.

“I needed a moment, Sherlock. I’m assuming these are…”

“Wedding rings, of course, John. Even you must be that observant.”

“Ta for that, love – you were clearly born with the Holmes silver tongue.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at me, even as he slips from his chair onto his knees in front of me. Resting his hands on my knees, he gazes up into my face. I study the lines of his face, every elegant angle and curve so dear to me; and watch, amazed, as he struggles for words.

“Sorry, it’s just…I’m just… _will_ you? Marry me?”

I look at this astonishing, infuriating man, a man who has held my heart in his hands from the day we met. How like him to plunge headlong back in like this.

“You want me to marry you.”

“Well, all right, same-sex marriage hasn’t been legalised yet, although Mycroft is on the case, so it should happen quite soon. But civil partnership is certainly an option; I just didn’t think that you would be so nitpicky about language. That’s really more my area. Very well, will you be my _civil partner?_ Although it doesn’t really roll off the tongue as nicely as ‘will you marry me’…”

“Sherlock!” I have to stop this ridiculous flow of words. He looks up, opalescent eyes wide, surprised at my exasperated tone.

“Yes, John?”

“I need to know exactly what you’re thinking right now, because I just told you last night that I’m not sure of your ability to commit and be honest. How does that fit in with a _proposal?”_

He looks honestly bewildered.

“It’s proof that I _do_ want to commit to you, isn’t it? And proof that I’ve wanted it for a while, I might add – I had these specially made because of you – I chose Dari for the engraving, because of your connection to Afghanistan. I chose the verse engraved on them from that book of poems, because that verse was the one thing in that book that wasn’t useless, and it reminded me of you…” he trails off, looking alarmed at my scowl.

“Bit not good, Sherlock,” I warn him.

Sherlock fists his hands in his curls, groaning, and looks up at me, his mercurial eyes flashing.

“I’m well aware that I’m shite at this, John. I’m rubbish at emotions, at sentiment. But I genuinely do have sentimental feelings about you, about marrying you. I just…don’t know how to tell you that you’re the center of my world, and I’m lost without you. If you give me this chance, I’ll spend my life trying to live up to what you deserve. I just wish I had the right _words!”_ He slams a fist into the ottoman beside him in frustration.

I reach over, take that clenched fist in my own hand, pry it open to lace the fingers into my own.

“For a man who can’t find the right words, you’re doing all right,” I whisper.

He lifts his head, the soft glow of the fireplace transforming his face into unearthly beauty. Those extraordinary eyes meet mine, lighting up with hope.

“Does…does that mean you forgive me, John?”

“Yes, love. It will take a while to get over it, but forgiveness is mostly about intent, anyway. I want to forgive you, and in time, I know that I will.”

“Will you marry me? Will you spend your life with me?”

_Marriage. Marriage to Sherlock._

I reach out to stroke his jawline, suddenly overwhelmed by how incredibly precious this man is to me. Before I met him, I was so alone, living a monochrome existence. Then he walked into my life, and suddenly, everything was in vivid colour. When I lost him, I thought so often about how, if I could only have another chance at being with him, I wouldn’t hesitate to grab onto life with both hands and _never let go_.

_This is that chance._

Who knows what the future will bring? We are about to confront an incredibly dangerous assassin. If something happens to either of us, and I haven’t given Sherlock my answer – can I live with that decision?

There’s no way to know how much time we might have together. I’m not wasting another _second_.

I smile at him, leaning forward to kiss him softly.

“Yes, you maniac. I can’t bear the thought of spending it anywhere else. Imagine all the excitement I’d miss.”

Sherlock seizes my face in both hands, crushing his lips against my own. When I part my lips, his tongue plunges in to explore and claim my mouth, tongue stroking aggressively against mine. The surge of desire between us is overwhelming. When at last we break the kiss to gasp for air, Sherlock’s thumb strokes against my cheekbone, and he chuckles.

“I say danger –”

“– and here I am.”

Sherlock kisses me deeply again, and things are heating up between us when I’m suddenly struck with a thought, and can’t help but giggle a bit. Sherlock pulls away with a puzzled air.

“Hilarity, John? Really? And you harp on about _my_ timing.”

I giggle again.

“Sorry. It’s just – I can’t believe we got engaged at Mycroft’s.”

I laugh again at his vague expression of horror.

 

oOoOo

 

We are gathered at the door, ready to head back to Baker Street. I’m armed, as is Sherlock. Edwin and Wiggins are carrying two large duffel bags, presumably containing the decoy and equipment. I’m relieved not to have to see that thing again.

“Is everyone clear on what they’ll be doing?” asks Sherlock.

Everyone nods. Edwin looks nervous and hesitant; Wiggins defiant; Mycroft inscrutable as usual.

Sherlock sweeps us all with his gaze, gives us an approving nod, and turns to the agent waiting at the door. The agent is listening to an earpiece, and he nods briefly to Mycroft, then opens the door.

“All clear, sir.”

We walk swiftly to the two long, black saloon cars waiting for us. Edwin and Wiggins climb into the first one, Wiggins looking back to give Sherlock a long, weighted look. I’m not sure what she’s trying to tell him, but Sherlock gives her an equally serious nod, then a cheeky wink. Her face brightens, and the corner of her mouth pulls up a bit. The agent closes the door behind her, and then their car pulls away as we get into the second car.

Another agent is waiting to drive us. Sherlock, Mycroft and I sit back against the buttery-soft leather, and the car pulls smoothly away from the kerb. Mycroft glances between us, studying Sherlock’s face, then mine, before he speaks.

“I suppose congratulations are in order?” Sherlock growls at his brother, but Mycroft ignores him and looks me over, shaking his head wonderingly. “I was surprised this morning to see how readily you welcomed Sherlock back into your bed, Doctor Watson, but _marriage_ –”

It’s none of your _bloody_ business, Mycroft!” explodes Sherlock, before I have a chance to unleash the tirade I feel building behind my lips.

“Nonsense, Sherlock,” Mycroft replies. “You are my younger brother, Sherlock, and as such, I believe it is my duty to give the traditional ‘hurt him, and I’ll kill you’ speech.”

Before Sherlock can explode again, I lean forward and point sternly at Mycroft.

“Mycroft, I have had more than enough of your bullying and interference in our lives. If recent evidence is anything to go by, I am the only one of all three of us who has a decent track record in avoiding ‘hurting’ Sherlock. I’m tired of your condescension and your veiled threats. I love your brother. I plan to marry him and spend my life at his side, protecting him from harm whenever possible – which includes the harm caused by his interfering, overbearing, and frankly, stalkerish brother. Our relationship is none of your business, Mycroft Holmes, and from this moment on, I expect you to recognise that fact.”

For a moment, Mycroft’s face is a picture of shock. His jaw hangs slack, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly; a goldfish out of water, gasping for oxygen. Sherlock grins wickedly, thoroughly enjoying seeing his brother taken to task for his constant interference.

Mycroft pulls himself together with a little shake, recovering his dignity.

“Of course, Doctor Watson. My apologies if my methods have seemed…overbearing…in the past. I assure you, the knowledge of your impending nuptials pleases me enormously. I am greatly looking forward to being present when Sherlock introduces you to our parents.”

 _Meeting the parents. Christ, what must_ those two _be like?_

“One sociopathic duo at a time, Mycroft,” snaps Sherlock, “Let us deal with Moran and Adair first.”

I scrub my face with my hands as the car moves slowly toward Baker Street through the London rush hour traffic. I realise that I’m suddenly almost looking forward to a confrontation with a couple of coldblooded assassins.

_Anything to postpone meeting the pair that produced the Holmes brothers._

 

oOoOo

* excerpt from _Lament,_ by Edna St. Vincent Millay

** by Maya Angelou


	17. An Obvious Fact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter notes:
> 
> Thanks again to abundantlyqueer and AfroGeekGoddess for your ideas and feedback on the character of Moran and his backstory. You are both amazing. Thank you to my friend Edwin for your help in researching weaponry and ballistics armor. Thank you to my lovely, lovely readers for messaging me asking for me to publish the next chapter, PLEASE! Without your gentle encouragement, I'm not sure I'd have kept going when it got tough.
> 
> And as always, thanks to my wonderful beta reader/editor/mentor/friend, Skyfullofstars. If this chapter is good, it's thanks to Sky. If it's not, then I just didn't live up to her standard. :)

oOoOo

 

**Chapter 17: An Obvious Fact**

 

oOoOo

**_“There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.”_ **

**_―_ ** **_Arthur Conan Doyle_ **

oOoOo

 

The sleek, black saloon drops us off at the top of Baker Street. As we exit the car, Mycroft places a lightly restraining hand on Sherlock’s arm.

“Do have a care, Sherlock,” he murmurs. “I wish you’d let me handle this.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” snorts Sherlock, shrugging away from his brother’s touch. “I’ve planned this ambush perfectly. It’s all under control.”

Mycroft sighs, releasing Sherlock and sitting back against the soft leather seat.

“Very well, brother. Good hunting.”

Their eyes lock for a moment, steely grey boring into icy blue, then Sherlock nods curtly.

“And to you.”

He slams the heavy door, and the car glides smoothly away from the kerb.

Sherlock turns to me.

“Follow me, John.”

We duck into a narrow alley, take a sharp right into another, and then Sherlock hops a low wall. I scramble over it after him, mentally cursing his long, lanky legs that make him so quick to go _over_ instead of _around_. The anti-ballistic vest I’m wearing doesn’t make the climbing any easier, but I’m not about to complain after my vocal insistence, back at Mycroft’s, that we wear body armor. _Suck it up, Watson._

We find ourselves in a narrow alleyway between the exposed railway tracks at Baker Street Station and a row of through-terraced houses. Sherlock strides swiftly to one of the doors and whips out a key. In seconds, he has the door open and is beckoning me inside.

Sherlock closes the door behind us, then turns to me.

“Do you know where we are, John?”

Despite the age of the building, the house has a faint aroma of fresh construction: the scents of sawdust, plaster and fresh paint linger subtly in the air. I move to the front of the house and gaze out the window. I realise that this is the house that Moriarty blew up in the fake gas explosion, where he left Sherlock the replica of the pink phone in a strongbox. The rebuilding has been quite skillfully done, and the interior of the old, Georgian house has been restored to an extremely desirable, modern home.

“"Is this Camden House, which stands opposite to our flat?”

“Exactly.” Sherlock’s mouth quirks up in approval. He motions to the stairs. “After you.”

As we climb the stairs to the first floor, I’m puzzled by the empty house. Baker Street is a popular location. _Why would this house be uninhabited?_

“Mycroft bought it,” Sherlock answers, dryly, as we reach the landing.

_Did I say it out loud?_

“You are so obvious, really, John.” Sherlock rolls his eyes at me. “You looked at the empty rooms, obviously noting the lack of furniture. Your mind always goes to the financial aspect of things. You should really stop doing that, by the way – with my inheritance, you’re as rich as Mycroft now. So, of course, you wondered why this house is vacant in a location like this. Simple, really – Mycroft bought the house, with this endgame in mind.”

“Amazing,” I burst out, before I can stop myself.

Sherlock beams at me. I’m overwhelmed, suddenly, by the wave of nostalgic joy that sweeps over me. We’re on the hunt, adrenaline rising, Sherlock is being brilliant – it’s all so _achingly_ familiar. _I’ve missed this so much._

I grin back at Sherlock, and the flash of heat that suddenly arcs between us is so shocking that I actually gasp. Sherlock’s eyes dilate as they burn into mine, and he backs me against the trendy, exposed-brick wall, dipping his head to crush his lips to mine, as his long fingers drop to grip my hips. His hot tongue invades my mouth, curling aggressively around my own.

My own arousal is sudden and intense, and my left hand cups his arse, tugging him closer, as the fingers of my right hand twine into the curls at his nape. For a moment, I allow myself to savour my lover’s heated embrace. Then I force myself to relax my grip on Sherlock, loosening my hands to release the short, curly hair, the luscious arse. Sherlock reluctantly follows suit, and we slowly release each other to simply stand, leaning into each other, foreheads touching, hands loosely gripping each other’s arms.

“Blimey, Sherlock,” I gasp, trying to get my breath back. “Not exactly textbook behaviour for a stakeout, is it?”

Sherlock chuckles, the rich baritone sending aftershocks down my spine.

“One last hurrah, isn’t that what they say?”

“Shut it,” I snap at him, fiercely. He blinks at me in surprise.

“John?”

“I mean it, Sherlock. Don’t you say things like that. You are never to leave me again. _Ever_. Our ‘last hurrah’ won’t take place until we’re old and grey, in that cottage with the beehives you talked about. Understood?”

His face crinkles into my beloved _just-for-John_ smile, all creases and lines and crooked lips.

“Understood.”

We grin at each other; then continue up the stairs.

 

oOoOo

 

When we enter the large, square room that faces Baker Street, Sherlock turns to me.

“Step closer to the window, John, taking every precaution not to show yourself, and then look over at our flat -- the starting point of so many of your little fairytale blog entries.”

“Prat.” I good-naturedly swat Sherlock on the arse. “Show some respect - those blog entries are your livelihood.”

Sherlock sniffs. “I suppose it has brought a few mildly interesting cases to my attention.”

Rolling my eyes at this latest rehashing of our familiar argument, I ease forward beside the window, peering cautiously around the frame to look across Baker Street. The sun is dropping behind the roofline of 221, but I can still see directly into our brightly-lit sitting room.

Sherlock lies draped across the sofa in front of the window, fingers steepled in his classic thinking pose.

_Christ, that’s eerie._

It’s the decoy, of course. From here, the “uncanny valley” effect isn’t visible; it’s merely Sherlock, sprawled in his usual long-limbed grace, a knight’s effigy returned to life. As I watch, I see the head shift side to side, and the hands unfold to lie flat across the decoy’s chest.

“Where’s Edwin?” I ask.

“Upstairs.”

“What? I thought you said he wasn’t going to be in danger!” I stare at Sherlock in shock.

“He’s not, John.” Sherlock pauses, then looks down, not meeting my eye. “Well…not much danger, anyway.”

“Sherlock! He’s just a kid!”

“Relax, John. One of Mycroft’s agents is with him, protecting him. He’s in the attic. He’s safe.” Sherlock turns toward the built-in wardrobe on the far wall.

“We’ll wait in the wardrobe for Moran. When he comes to the window, and is focused on his target, then we will spring the trap.” His eyes sparkle with suppressed excitement. “It’s almost over, John. Moran is nearly within our grasp.”

 

oOoOo

 

The biggest problem with stakeouts is the waiting. Sometimes it’s boring, other times it can be fraught with tension – either way, it always seems interminable.

Sherlock and I are sitting on a thickly folded blanket on the floor of the wardrobe, attempting to make the wait as comfortable as possible. Sherlock leans back into the corner, forearms resting on his drawn-up knees. I’m beside him, my shoulder pressed against his, with my loaded Browning on the floor beside me.

The necessary silence is not uncomfortable – it has always been easy for us to just sit quietly together, if the situation warrants it. I just wish so much that we could talk, that Sherlock could tell me about his time deconstructing Moriarty’s network. There are so many questions in my mind.

It’s also warm, our shared body heat warming the small space nicely. The physical and emotional upheaval we’ve experienced is starting to have an effect on me; I’ve become drowsy. Despite the impending danger of the upcoming confrontation, I find myself fighting the urge to close my eyes “for just a moment.”

Sherlock gently nudges my shoulder with his own.

“You can catch a quick kip, John,” he murmurs. “I’ll wake you if I hear anything. It will probably be another hour or two before traffic on Baker Street quiets down enough for Moran to make his move.”

I shouldn’t. I should stay awake, stay alert. But before I can voice my reservations, Sherlock curves a hand up to cup my head and guide it down to rest against his shoulder.

_Maybe just a quick combat nap._

I shift sideways to get a better angle, nuzzle into Sherlock’s neck, savouring that tangy scent that is uniquely his, and allow my weariness to tug me down into the temporary respite of sleep.

 

oOoOo

 

Cool, slim fingers press against my lips, startling me from my light doze against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock’s warm lips graze my ear as he murmurs, “The game is on, John.”

Instantly, all traces of sleep vanish, and adrenaline hums through my veins. We ease to our feet, careful not to jostle against the walls of the wardrobe. As stealthy footfalls announce the arrival of our quarry, I glance once more at the Browning to ensure the safety is off.

 Sherlock left the wardrobe door slightly open, so that we can watch through the narrow crack between door and frame. Peering through the dark room, I see a powerfully-built man, head covered in a balaclava, creeping toward the window, a silver attaché case in hand. He carefully raises the sash by a handspan, then crouches on the floor beside the open window.

Swiftly, he opens the attaché, and with an ease that speaks of his familiarity with the weapon, he lifts out the lower of what looks to be a Paratus clandestine breakdown rifle, and begins to screw on the barrel with military efficiency. Within a minute, he has the rifle assembled, complete with a silencer and powerful scope. Resting the rifle’s bipod on the windowsill, he carefully sights his target.

His finger pulls the trigger, and we hear a soft _pffft_ , followed immediately by the silvery tinkle of broken glass.

In an instant, Sherlock springs from our hiding place, and has crossed the room to hurl the would-be assassin flat on his face. I am right behind him, and as the man scrambles to his hands and knees, I press the muzzle of my Browning to the base of his skull. He freezes, not even breathing.

“Put your hands behind your head!” I bark, easing the pressure on his head slightly. He complies, with slow and careful movements, rocking back to a kneeling position, so that he can place his hands on the back of his head. I take a couple of steps back, keeping my gun trained on him. He keeps his head up, shoulders rigid.

“You couldn’t resist the chance to take me down, could you, Colonel?” Sherlock asks, rising gracefully to his feet. “Forgive me for not introducing myself. I don’t believe either of us have actually had the pleasure of a face-to-face meeting with you, Colonel; although you have certainly seen me, as well as Doctor Watson here, through the scope of a rifle. Never mind, we can introduce ourselves now.”

“John, this is Colonel Sebastian Moran, once of the Special Reconnaissance Regiment of the United Kingdom’s Special Forces, survivalist, expert sharpshooter, and a genius at rebuilding classic motorcycles.” Sherlock seizes the balaclava, and removes it with a flourish.

The face revealed could be that of a model, or a Hollywood star. High, angled cheekbones, a strong, chiseled jawline, almond-shaped eyes in a dark, proud face – he should be one of the handsomest men I’ve ever seen. But, what should be comely is spoiled by the cold, ruthless glitter of those dark eyes, and the cruel sneer that twists his full lips into an unattractive mask.

“Clever, Holmes,” he says, in a deep, smoky voice; which, again, should be attractive, but is ruined by the sarcastic bite of his tone. “Very clever indeed.”

“You’ve played the game well, Colonel,” drawls Sherlock, “but you really should have quit while you were ahead. Why did you continue to pursue me, when Moriarty was dead and gone?”

“You know perfectly well,” snaps Moran, “that you were a threat to my professional career. Besides, you cost me Moriarty, a connection more valuable than any other. I owed you one.”

Sherlock shakes his head with an exasperated sigh.

“Really, Colonel, you should know better. Posthumous loyalty? You’ll spoil your reputation for being heartless.”

Moran’s eyes narrow into glittering, deadly arcs.

“I wouldn’t worry about _my_ heart, Mister Holmes,” he says, with an oddly triumphant expression. “You’d do far better to be concerned for your own.”

Sherlock’s eyes flash to me, and take in my position, standing between Moran and the window, gun in hand. Those silver eyes widen suddenly, and panic flares across his face.

_“John! Get down!”_

_Fuck – the window._

As if in slow motion, I see Moran drop to the floor. I instinctively lunge forward to protect Sherlock. Before I can even take a step, a sledgehammer slams high between my shoulderblades, sending a bright arc of agony up my neck to my skull.

Everything – the cascade of falling glass around me, Moran rolling into a defensive position on his side, even Sherlock’s wide, shocked eyes – fades down to a pinpoint of light. I am vaguely aware of a desperate voice, crying my name, as I slump to the floor.

_“Johhhnn!”_

 

oOoOo

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More coming VERY soon, I swear!


	18. The Tiniest Fragments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: My humble apologies to my readers for the inexcusable length of time between updates on this fic. Real life happened, but the biggest reason for the delay was a huge, heaping helping of depression, with a big serving of writer’s block on the side. It’s been a job to digest it all, but I think I’m on the mend.
> 
> Many, many thanks to my lovely, lovely beta, Skyfullofstars, who has encouraged (and gently nagged) me, despite going through some extremely difficult and sad times herself. Sky, you are such an inspiration to me. Thank you for sticking with me, my friend.
> 
> Thanks, also, to those of you who left reviews, and private messages, asking me to write the rest of this story. Special thanks to the brilliantly dedicated Hanako Hayashi, who has faithfully translated the entire “No Heart For Me Like Yours” series into French.
> 
> And a deeply sincere thank you to the amazing MapleLeafCameo, who has just read and reviewed Every. Single. Chapter. of ALL of my fics, and commented on so many of the little details that I thought no one had noticed. Thanks for reminding me of why I like writing - you gave me that final shove that I needed to get off my arse, and back in the saddle.
> 
> And now, I’ll stop mixing my metaphors, shut the hell up, and give you this long-awaited chapter. The next chapter is already halfway written, and should be up very, very soon. Thank you all for sticking with me.

 

oOoOo

 

**Chapter 18: The Tiniest Fragments**

 

oOoOo

 

**_“ Somehow, even in the worst of times, the tiniest fragments of good survive._ **

**_It was the grip in which one held those fragments that counted.”_ **

**_―_ ** **_Melina Marchetta_ **

****

oOoOo

 

_The first thing I’m aware of is the steady bleep of a heart monitor. As I blearily open my eyes, the brilliant lights of an operating theatre swim into view. I’m amazed to find that the light isn’t bothering my eyes at all. An odd tingling sensation is shooting through my arms, and I try to lift a hand to see what is causing it._

_I can’t move my hands._

_“John?”_

_Sherlock’s face swims into view. He’s wearing sterile surgical equipment, but those verdigris eyes are unmistakable above the anonymous blue mask. He reaches over to grasp my shoulder with his gloved hand. I want to say something about maintaining the sterile field, but my mouth won’t work._

_“Just relax, John,” Sherlock says, his madcap curls escaping from the surgical cap in a decidedly unsanitary fashion. “You’re in absolutely brilliant hands.”_

_I realise that my chest is wide open, and that an ivory-pale surgeon is up to his elbows in my chest cavity. He lifts something out; hands it to Sherlock._

_“Look what he gave me, John,” Sherlock murmurs, holding the object up to the light._

_My_ heart _._

_The surgeon lifts a brick of Semtex, carefully fits it into my chest cavity, then turns to me with a shark’s grin._

_Moriarty._

_“That should do it, Johnny boy.”_

_Oddly, I feel more concern about his lack of a surgical mask than for the replacement of my vital organs with plastic explosive. Sherlock pulls his mask off as well, smiling happily as he cradles my heart against his own chest._

_“This is so lovely, John,” he says. “I’ll take better care of it this time.”_

_“These will need to come off, though,” remarks Moriarty, gesturing casually to my arms._

_“That’s all right, they don’t work any longer,” replies Sherlock. “You can put them over there with his legs.” He turns towards a blue-draped table, and I see my legs, still clad in jeans and boots, lying neatly side-by-side. He wanders over, heart still held close to his body, to take a closer look._

_Moriarty grins again, gesturing for someone just out of my line of sight to step up into Sherlock’s place at my side._

_“Sebby, dear, do take care of Johnny boy, won’t you?”_

_Sebastian Moran looms over me, his dark, brooding face regarding me impassively. He sets his sniper rifle across my open chest, then draws a long, black combat knife from his boot. He straightens, then studies the dark blade, tilting it to show me the razor-sharp edges._

_“Nothing personal, Doc,” his smoky voice rumbles. “This won’t take a moment.”_

_In a panic, but unable to move, I watch the blade rise, then drop to slash at my left arm. I gasp at the sharp, stabbing pain._

_“John! Don’t move!” Sherlock has lunged back to my side, gripping my shoulders in his gloved hands._

_“This might be easier if we turned him over,” growls Moran, circling to my other side._

_“Don’t touch him!” hisses Sherlock. Moran ignores him, bringing the knife down to slash the right arm._

_The pain is even sharper, and I groan, closing my eyes against the pain. Sherlock clutches tighter at my shoulders._

_“John…_ John!”

Consciousness, or something like it, returns on the crest of a wave of nausea. I begin to dry-heave (or already have been), and I am irritated by the interruption of my misery by angry noises: heavy, thudding impacts and the sharp scuff of feet scrabbling across a floor. The sounds remind me vaguely of something awful that happened, or perhaps is happening.  It sounds almost as though someone is fighting. Fighting for their very lives, perhaps. I wonder dimly if I should be worried.

Really, though, I’m much more focused on the odd, burning sensation that radiates down both arms. God, I must be getting old…this bed is rock-hard. Makes army bunks seem like featherbeds.

I really must buy a decent pillow…this one is doing nothing for me. Funny smell, too…something like lacquer…like woodworking, or new paint…hmmmm…smells a bit like the woodshop out beyond Grandad’s old crofter’s cottage…maybe Grandad’ll let me use the lathe this time…

“John!”

I force my eyes open, blinking muzzily. Floorboards.

_Not a bed, then. Not Grandad’s, either. Stone floors there._

 “John! For God’s sake!”

Sherlock’s panicked shout snaps me out of my stupor. Time for action. _Now_.

My body remains facedown on expensive, dark hardwood.

_What the fuck?_

I try to push up on my elbows, and panic as I realise I have no control over my arms. The shooting pain in my arms intensifies, but as for the rest of my body...

_Oh, my God._

I can’t feel anything below my chest, not even the pressure of my body on the floor. It’s horrifying, as though I’m floating in thin air from my belly on down. I groan in terror.

_Jesus Christ…I’m paralysed._

_Please, God, let this be a dream, too – if I can dream about madmen cracking my chest, then surely I can be dreaming about paralysis. Please, God…_

The room greys out again.

 

oOoOo

 

This time there is no dream. I wake to ringing in my ears, muffling the sound of two men fighting nearby; grunts, scuffling, the dull thud of punches landing. Another wave of nausea overwhelms me, and as I dry-heave helplessly, I’m grateful that I haven’t eaten since the pastries this morning. Being face-down in vomit would be even more awful than lying here in my own urine; which, my nose dismally informs me, has already happened.

Blinking hard in an attempt to clear my mind, I ignore the increased tingling pain in my arms and gingerly roll my head to rest on my right cheek in an effort to see the room.

_Fuck._

Just at the edge of my line of sight, Sherlock is struggling with Moran. I know only too well how strong Sherlock actually is. In spite of the disparity in their sizes, he holds his own against the well-muscled, much larger man. Each time Moran tries to close with Sherlock, he manages to escape the hold and dance clear.

However, Moran has trained in close combat, and has the advantage.  With my heart in my throat, I realise that Sherlock is tiring, the exhaustion and weight loss of the past months working against him. When Moran nearly takes him down with a well-timed leg sweep, I gasp, struggling for the breath needed to cry out a warning.

“Sherlock!” I manage to rasp out, “Don’t let him pull you down to the floor!”

Sherlock’s silvery glance flashes towards me, startled by my cry. Moran tries to take advantage of his distraction. Biting my lip, I watch in fear, pinned to the floor by my useless limbs, as the two men dodge and weave across the huge, empty room. Sherlock barely manages to dodge the incoming sucker punch, ducking away from Moran’s enormous fist. He pivots to deliver a side kick to Moran, but Moran manages to deflect the blow to his thigh, rather than the knee Sherlock was targeting.

Struggling to blink away the cold sweat that has dripped into my eyes, I see the terrible moment where Moran’s massive hand manages to seize Sherlock’s heel mid-kick. Before he can recover his balance, Moran delivers a hammer strike with the side of his fist that catches Sherlock’s shoulder and sends him plummeting to the floor, less than a metre away from me. Sherlock tries to roll to his feet, but Moran is quick as a snake.

To my horror, Moran manages to pin Sherlock beneath him, and wraps his huge hands around my lover’s slim, white throat. I struggle fruitlessly on the sidelines, trying to move, aching to help. Sherlock bucks and writhes beneath his assailant, desperately trying to use a hip escape maneuver, but Moran drops his elbows into Sherlock’s armpits, preventing him from completing the move. He shifts his center of gravity lower.

Sherlock’s face is now flushed an alarmingly dark crimson, and his struggles to escape are starting to weaken. Those long, white fingers scrabble uselessly against Moran’s massive hands, failing to find purchase. His heels drum on the polished floor. His eyes are bright red as they bulge from their sockets.

 _“Sherlock!”_ I cry again, as I desperately try once more to push up onto my elbows.

Nothing.

_Danny Foley, bleeding out under a hot Afghan sun, mere inches from my useless hands…_

I fight to quell my rising panic. Once again, I lie helpless while a comrade struggles for his life. This time, so much more than just a comrade – the center of my universe.

_Please let him live, please, I can’t lose him again… no…I just got him back…please, God, please please please…_

Blinking desperately against sweat and tears, and feeling the lack of air as if it were my own, I see Sherlock’s movements becoming weaker, more spasmodic.

_No…_

There’s a sudden movement in the doorway behind Moran, and I glance up in time to see tangled, mousy hair and a worn duffel coat.

_Wiggins._

With a dull thud of a gun butt meeting bone, Moran abruptly pitches forward atop my lover’s body, unconscious. Sherlock desperately attempts to suck in air, then gags.

Wiggins  shoves fiercely at Moran’s shoulder in an effort to free Sherlock from his weight. Together, their combined efforts are enough to roll the bulk of the former colonel off of Sherlock, and he scrambles to hands and knees, retching. Wiggins crouches beside him, her shaking fingers still clutching a Sig Sauer P226.

“Mister Holmes! Are you all right?”

Sherlock manages to nod, gasping for breath. He fishes a pair of zip ties from his coat pocket and shoves them at her.

“Here,” he grits out, “tie him up before he comes to.” He retches again, still struggling to recover his breath. Wiggins complies, stooping over the unconscious man to bind his wrists tightly in front of him. Task accomplished, she turns her worried attention my way.

 “Doctor Watson!” She rushes to my side, dropping the handgun to the floor, and grips my shoulder.

“No!” Sherlock cries hoarsely, lunging forward to stop her before she can roll me over. “His spine is injured. Leave him in this position.”

His long, elegant fingers shake as they curve around to gently cup my cheek. I’m so grateful for the contact, for being able to feel the caress. I press my trembling face into his warm palm, relieved beyond words at his narrow escape.

“Talk to me, John,” he murmurs, bending down closer from his kneeling position, so that I can see the reddening from petechial haemorrhages that now ring the irises of his worried eyes. The contrast makes them appear greener than ever. “Tell me what to do. Can I move you?”

 “Better not,” I gasp, trying unsuccessfully to bite back a groan from the increasing pain in my arms. I know I should be grateful for any signs of returning sensation, but the sharp, burning pain is hard to tolerate. “Wait for the first responders to do it. It’ll be good to move, though – I’m pretty sure I’ve pissed myself.”

“That could not possibly matter less, John,” he reassures me. “Where were you hit?” Gentle fingers quiver as they examine the skin of my neck, and pull back the collar of my shirt to expose the Kevlar vest.

“And to think I was fighting you on wearing body armour this afternoon, John,” he rasps, his voice still painfully hoarse from his confrontation with Moran.  He manages a small smile, although his attempt at levity can’t mask his concern. “He aimed too low and missed the ‘apricot’* – no doubt due to your last-minute movement as he fired – but if it weren’t for ceramic and Kevlar, you’d be a dead man.” He swallows audibly after this comment, wincing at the strain on his injured throat.

I chuckle weakly. “Are you saying you were wrong? Bear witness to this, Wiggins _,” (a shaky giggle comes from my other side),_ “Sherlock Holmes is actually admitting that he is wrong.”

“I never claimed to be infallible, you git,” he murmurs, carding gentle fingers through my hair. “Time to call in Mycroft, and get an ambulance for you,” he says, reaching into his pocket for his phone.

“I really, _really_ wouldn’t do that, Holmes,” a rough, smoker’s voice growls from the door.

Instinctively, I try to reach for my gun, as Sherlock whirls towards the open door. Still no response from my limbs; just the sharp, shooting pains in my arms, growing more painful by the minute. I ruthlessly squash it down. This is no time to dwell on the distinct possibility that I am permanently paralysed.

_Oh god oh god not paralysed I can’t bear it oh please please please…_

_Stop it, Watson. Pull yourself together, soldier._

I can’t waste time thinking about myself. Instead I focus my attention on the short, muscular man in the doorway. He is dressed in the same black garb as Moran, but his balaclava is pulled down around his neck to reveal fiery, ginger fuzz on his close-cropped head. Bright, green eyes glitter in his freckled face.

Beside him is a trembling Edwin, enormous blue eyes locked on the sleek pistol pressed into his side.

Sherlock stands slowly, taking in the new situation.

“Lieutenant Ronald Adair, of course,” he drawls in his roughened voice, looking the man over with his razor-sharp focus. “Compulsive gambler…chain smoker…far too interested in underage girls…recently tried to cut back on your drinking…worried about a family predisposition for heart trouble.”

Adair’s sharp, foxy face breaks into a cold, malicious grin.

“Look what I found in the attic of your house. I took care of the watchdog you left with ‘im.” He shoves the muzzle against Edwin’s ribs, chuckling at the boy’s flinch of terror.

“Christ, you benders like ‘em young, Holmes. Doctor Watson not enough for you these days?” He glances down at me, takes in my body’s immobility at a glance, and smirks. “Looks like you were planning ahead – the doc won’t be making any house calls anytime soon.”

Fury surges through me, and I long to leap into action. Desperately, I try to move my hand, to reach the Sig that Wiggins dropped by my side. _So close…_

Sharp pains like an electric shock lance through my arms and chest, but I see the fingers on my left hand twitch slightly. _Thank God – it’s not a complete paralysis, at least._

I’m struggling to repeat the movement as Sherlock takes a step towards Adair, who responds by pressing the pistol harder into Edwin’s side. Poor Edwin winces in pain, and his lower lip quakes a bit.

“Try it, Holmes. Just try to make a move.” The green eyes glint at Sherlock, razor-sharp and bright. “Give me an excuse to blow a hole in this pouf.”

Sherlock raises his hands slightly, acknowledging the impasse.

“Let the boy go, Adair,” he says smoothly, “I’m the one you’re after.”

Adair rolls his eyes, opening his mouth to respond, but is interrupted by a long, low groan from Moran. From the corner of my eye, I see the sniper roll his head back and forth as he struggles to regain his senses.

I redouble my efforts to slide my hand closer to the gun, feeling rivulets of sweat trickling down my scalp from the exertion.   _Damn it, Watson, move your fucking fingers, soldier!_

“Colonel!” To my surprise, it seems that Adair’s face actually _is_ capable of showing some measure of caring for another human being. “Sir, are you all right?” When Moran’s only response is another groan, Adair turns to glare at Sherlock.

“When he wakes up, we are going to invent a whole new level of suffering for you, Holmes. We’ll start on your little friends here, and save you for last.”

“I really don’t think you will.”

Startled, Adair looks towards the new voice, to see Wiggins, who has quietly retrieved the Browning from the small of my back _(I didn’t even feel her take it, oh my God, no sensation below the T2 vertebra at all)_. She steps around me, slowly making her way to stand over the former colonel, pointing the gun directly at Moran’s head.

Adair’s expression shifts from shock to dismay, and finally, to a strange, delighted recognition. His thin lips curl into a cruel leer as his glittering green eyes crawl avidly over her body.

“Well, well, well…if it isn’t Miss Valentine Macdonald, all grown up.”

 

oOoOo

 

Sherlock’s words in Dewer’s Hollow flash back to me…

_“Her surname was Macdonald, John.”_

_“…And?”_

_“I provided evidence against a certain person of some…repute, who shared the surname, as well as DNA, with Wiggins.”_

_“You don’t mean,_ Dennis _Macdonald?”_

_Dennis Macdonald, who ran a child prostitution and pornography ring out of his basement.  The children lived in the most horrifying conditions imaginable; the brutal squalor of the “dungeon” where they were kept, the violent acts recorded in the professional-quality video studio, the horrifying physical and mental condition of the children rescued._

_And_ Wiggins _was one of them._

 

oOoOo

 

“It _has_ been a while, hasn’t it, Val?” purrs Adair. “Look at you…a bit long in the tooth for my usual tastes these days, but still fit as a butcher’s dog.” He licks his lips, eyeing her up and down in a possessive way that makes me grit my teeth in rage at my helpless state. I can hear Sherlock growling under his breath.

“Fancy a quick tumble, little Valentine, for old time’s sake? I remember how you used to beg for my hard cock…Daddy had you well-trained in those days. Now that you’re all grown up, can you still suck like a Hoover?”

Sherlock snarls and lurches forwards, but Adair shifts his aim towards him, and Sherlock forces himself to a halt. Again, I pour my entire being into the effort to nudge my hand forwards a bit. This time I am rewarded with a slight flex of my fingers, accompanied by an even stronger tingling sensation.

“Drop the gun, Val, or lose your benefactor,” says Adair, coolly sighting down the barrel of the sleek Glock in his hand.

Wiggins doesn’t move a muscle, her earlier shaking entirely gone, fierce determination holding her arm rock-steady.

“I don’t think so,” she hisses. “Think you’d better drop yours, if you want to keep your partner here.”

Adair, after a moment of consideration, merely changes his aim to shove the Glock into Edwin’s side again.

“Wiggins, _please_ …” Edwin’s eyes are wide and pleading.

“Untie my partner, Holmes,” Adair snarls, “or the kid gets gut-shot.”

“Don’t do it, Mister Holmes,” says Wiggins. She looks Adair dead in the eye. “If you hurt Edwin, I _will_ kill you.”

Abruptly, they are interrupted by Moran’s smoky, rumbling voice. 

“Shoot him, then. It’s all one to me.”

 

oOoOo

 

Despite his wrists being bound in front of him, Moran is an imposing force as he slowly struggles to his knees. His dark eyes glint up at Wiggins, and the two of them regard each other impassively.

Adair appears confused.

“Sir?” he asks. “Did you tell me to shoot the boy?”

Eyes never leaving Wiggins’, Moran replies coolly, “The boy doesn’t matter – shoot him or not, as you like. I was speaking to Miss…Macdonald, was it?”

 _“No,”_ she bites out. “It’s _Wiggins_.”

Adair asks, “Shoot who, sir?”

Moran regards him with cold, glittering eyes. “I was telling Miss…Wiggins…that she can shoot you if she likes. It makes no difference to me.”

The colour fades a bit from Adair’s skin; his freckles suddenly stand out sharply on his narrow face.

“Shite, Moran, I’m your spotter – your partner! What the hell are you playing at?”

“So?” Moran shrugs. “This girl can positively identify you to the authorities as a man who patronised a child prostitution ring. You’ve just become more of a liability than an asset to me.”

“So – that’s what guns are for! Witness gone, problem solved! Christ, Moran, help me out here!”

“Good suggestion.”

With a move as sudden as a snake’s strike, Moran lunges to seize my Browning from Wiggins, and wrenches it from her grip. Sherlock immediately drops to try and cover me. Pinned beneath him, I hear a gunshot, then a squeal like a rabbit in a snare. As Sherlock lifts his head, I can see poor Edwin slumping to the floor in a foetal position, sobbing like a child.

 _Edwin!”_ screams Wiggins, her voice ragged with grief. Despite Adair and Moran both being armed, she rushes to Edwin’s side and presses her hand against the wound in his side. Cradling his head in her lap, she strokes the disorderly locks back from his pale forehead. Adair is watching her with a sneer, but he makes no move to interfere, clearly allowing Moran to run the show.

Sherlock rises slowly, putting himself between Moran and me. I’m struggling with all of my might to move my left hand again, to get a grip on the Sig lying in the shadow of my body. My fingers twitch more forcefully, and my arm slides forwards a few inches. _Yes!_

I risk a quick glance up at Moran, in time to see him fist both hands tightly around the grip of the Browning, then swiftly bring his widely-spread elbows down _hard_ on either side of his hips. The zip ties easily snap apart, and he shifts the Browning to his right hand.

_Oh, Wiggins – that little manoeuvre is exactly why you never zip tie someone’s hands in front…it’s far too easy to snap the ties that way. Rookie mistake._

Moran looks at Sherlock, glances down dismissively at me, then back to Sherlock again.

“You and I have unfinished business, Mister Holmes,” he rumbles. “But first…”

He looks at Wiggins, who is huddled over her sobbing young friend, trying to stop the bleeding, her face nearly as pale as Edwin’s. Moran regards her calmly for a moment; then raises the Browning. 

“No!” shouts Sherlock, just as Moran fires. I grit my teeth in anticipation of seeing Wiggins shot – and am stunned to see Adair fall instead, blood staining his shirt front, the bewildered look of betrayal on his face swiftly slackening into despair. Moran looks on impassively as his longtime partner dies, no sign of emotion on his chiseled face.

Wiggins’ shocked eyes stare up at Moran, looking younger than ever. When he meets her stubbornly tear-free gaze, she whispers, “Why?”

Moran regards her for a silent moment, as still as if carved from onyx, and studies her with those cold, almond-shaped eyes.

“I find pedophilia distasteful, Miss Wiggins,” he replies. “While I suspected Ronald’s…predilections, I had no concrete evidence until now. This knowledge outweighs his usefulness to me.”

Edwin groans in Wiggins’ arms, and she breaks the former colonel’s gaze in order to check on him. Moran turns towards Sherlock, his face as calm as if he was chairing a meeting.

Sherlock tears his eyes away from his young protégés, straightens his lapels, and faces Moran with admirable aplomb. He lifts an elegant eyebrow.

“You were saying, Colonel?”

oOoOo

 

* * *

 

_*Snipers aim for the “apricot”, or the medulla oblongata, when attempting a head shot. The medulla oblongata is the lower part of the brain stem, and controls autonomic, or involuntary, movement (heart, respiration, etc.). It’s quite critical to “staying alive.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: John’s paralysis is based directly on the experience of my cousin a couple of years ago. I’m not making up a “magically-healing-spinal-injury” here. I’ll explain more fully as the story continues.


	19. The Hour of Lead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bless you, Skyfullofstars, for nudging - more like shoving - me back out of the rut and into the road. You are brilliant and wonderful. I owe the majority of this dialogue entirely to you!

oOoOo

 

**Chapter 19: The Hour of Lead**

 

oOoOo

**_“This is the Hour of Lead –_ **

**_Remembered, if outlived,_ **

**_As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –_ **

**_First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go.”_ **

**_―_ ** **_Emily Dickinson_ **

oOoOo

 

Moran’s dark chuckle raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

“One of the things I’ve always admired about you, Holmes – you do know how to get down to business.”

“And this is merely business for you, is it, Colonel?” Sherlock’s voice is not steady, the rasp from being choked still evident, along with his deep breaths, as he fights to slow his respiration, and quiet the thud of his heartbeat. But his cool tone belies his struggle, and I know that Moran, too, must be laboring to calm his breathing, to maintain his iron control. 

_The Sig._

It’s only inches from my fingers, still hidden in the shadow of my body. Fiery lightning tears through my arm and neck as I strain to shift my fingers forward again, attempting to take a bit of my weight on a tingling elbow, to try and ease closer to that possible salvation. A bit of grit on the floor is ground into the skin of my elbow as I manage to lift up a couple of inches, and I relish the small sting of normal pain reaction, resolutely squashing down the horror of feeling nothing below my armpits. 

_Christ, God Almighty – I still can’t feel my chest._

_Not the time, Watson. Don’t forget about Sherlock._

Panic over the possibility of paralysis takes a temporary backseat to fear for Sherlock’s safety.  I tilt my head slightly toward him for a moment, and am struck by his extreme pallor. He does not even glance in my direction, but keeps all his focus on Moran.

Of course.  He’s stalling.  Giving me the time I need.

_For fuck’s sake, hurry!_

Turning my attention back to the Sig, and desperately trying to ignore the scream of protest from my neck and arms, I manage to ease my fingers forward another bit. _Five?  No.  Closer to four inches away from my hand.  Four. Bloody. Inches._

Moran’s response comes on the heels of Sherlock’s wry tones.

“We both know how this is going to end, Holmes.  Ask your questions.  Surely you must have some?”

I hear the underlying exhaustion in Moran’s voice, and I realize that this bitter fight has taken its toll on both men.

Moran is struggling, too. But he’s a survivalist, as Sherlock pointed out earlier.  He is also a career soldier turned mercenary, trained in combat, trained to withstand torture. Moran can meet the shock of pain head on – savour it, turn it to his advantage.

Sherlock is none of those things. He has fought brilliantly, from the sound of it, ruthlessly pursued criminals and monsters, all to make the world safer. But he is not trained for extended, high-pressure combat scenarios. And what’s more, the love of my life is underweight, sleep-deprived and frankly exhausted from his labors and many injuries.  This can only end one way. 

_Unless…_

Sweat pours down my face; it drips, stinging, into my eyes.  Angrily, I try to shake my head to clear my eyesight, but all I get for my trouble is a bright flare of agony as my neck and head pain redoubles.

I look at my twitching fingers, so _close,_ yet so far away from the butt of the Sig. 

 _This cannot be happening.  We can’t have gained this ground, worked through so much, only to lose to Moran – and_ Moriarty _– in the end._

Their deep voices wash over me, the words no longer making an impression. Cool floorboards gently kiss my forehead, relieving pressure on my neck. I stare unseeing at the figured grain of the rosewood, drifting idly in my mind, _the faint roar of a waterfall in my ears, soldiers shouts blended into occasional counterpoint with machine gunfire filling my mind…floating along…Sherlock on the pavement at Bart’s, blood in his hair as he gazes up at me, and says…_

 “It’s hardly the time for reminiscences, Colonel.”

Sherlock’s dry voice snaps me out of my dissociative fugue. _Shite_. How much time have I lost?

_Damn it, Watson – keep reaching._

I push my fingers forward again, resolutely ignoring the sparks of agony shooting through me.

_So. Close. Three inches…two…_

My world has narrowed down to two points of focus: The conversation between the two men who stand a few feet from me – and the blasted Sig which rests along my line of sight, its barrel turned away from me. I can see that it has been lovingly maintained, the bluing smooth and perfect. I can see the worn bit around the grip where it has been handled repeatedly, the checkering on the grip smoothed out a bit in spots. Maddening.

_One more inch…_

My neck and arms are screaming, burning, and my head pounds like a bass drum. The fiery sensation begins to spread to my shoulders and chest.

_Oh, thank God. Thank you so much. Returning sensation, however slight. A possibility that this paralysis may be less than I thought._

I push forward a bit more. My fingertips barely graze the butt of the gun. I glance up just as Moran inexplicably _smiles_ at Sherlock. His grin is an icy blade, stark against his smooth, dark skin.

 “Actually Holmes, I find that I am at your disposal for a few minutes.  Surely, there must be some curiosity you wish to assuage before – ”  He gestures toward Sherlock with my Browning, and a chill washes over me as I am swept by a new horror. He intends to kill Sherlock with _my own weapon_.

I stifle a groan and try to put the two men out of my immediate mind.  And concentrate on reaching that damn gun.

My fingers are easing forward over the Sig.  My arm and neck muscles are screaming. If I can just get my fingers to curl around the grip of the gun…

I cannot hope to get to my feet or even to my knees to aim.  All I can hope for is to grasp the gun, and fire it in Moran’s direction.

What if I miss him? What if he fires at Sherlock? What if I miss Moran and hit Wiggins and Edwin? Where are they?

With that grounding thought, my consciousness slams back into my body and I drop my cheek to the floor for just a second, and shudder.

I need to assess the room. My cheek rests against the smooth, cold wood.  I can see Moran’s glance as it barely skims over me, and rests on Wiggins in the corner as she rocks Edwin’s limp body against her.  Edwin’s face is ashen and I cannot tell if he even breathes.

I can do this. I try to send a signal to my fingers, to remind them of this basic muscle memory – grip the gun, aim and fire. _I can do this._ I rest for a moment, listening to the conversation, watching from the corner of my eye, as I gather my strength.

Sherlock’s response is wry. The deep baritone flows over me like a balm.

“Actually, Colonel, I did wonder how you managed to escape that little skirmish in Norway.  I had thought my plan was quite foolproof.”

Moran’s voice is nearly gleeful. “Oslo.  The Oslo Central Station train yard?  That was a hell of a firefight, wasn’t it, Holmes?  I have to admit, you did the thing admirably.  It’s a damned shame that I had to go and spoil your fun.”

Sherlock snorts dismissively. “Truly? As I recall, Colonel, you left more than one of your men dead or dying on the Grønland tracks.”

Moran shrugs. “Needs must. They were expendable.  They did their job of keeping you busy, distracted for the necessary amount of time for me to –”

Sherlock cuts him off. “The 18.02 to Gothenburg. Obvious.”

“Of course.” 

I can hear the exultant gloating in Moran’s voice.  But underlying that is a chilly, assessing note that sounds a warning bell in my head, a shift in tone that puts me in mind of a commanding officer going into an engagement. We’re running out of time.

Sherlock continues. “And then on to Copenhagen, was it?  Obvious.  I would have thought Moriarty’s number one man could show a little more imagination.”

Moran’s voice is diffident. “I was never in Copenhagen, Holmes.  More’s the pity.  But Adair managed to live up the task I had set him.  I had no complaints about his abilities, at least not at that juncture.”

“ _Adair_ was in Copenhagen,” growls Sherlock, clearly irritated at missing that detail. “It’s always _something_.”

Moran’s smoky chuckle rumples in satisfaction. “Delegation – a little something I learned from Jim.  He admired you, you know?  His one flaw.  Unfortunately, it proved to be fatal, as most obsessions do.”

He grins coldly, and adds, “Besides, you were in no condition to follow me too closely. That much was obvious.”

_Wait._

_What?_

_I swear, if we get out of this…No.  No, damn it._ When _we get out of this, I will make the mad git sit down and tell me every last thing that happened while he was ‘dead.’_

I tighten my fingers slowly on the Sig, feeling the checkering of the grip bite into my palm.

_Focus Watson.  Sherlock’s here. He’s alive. Keep it together. It’s almost time._

The shaking in my hand and shoulders has become almost uncontrollable. I allow my head to drop to the floor again. Just a moment…Steady now…

Moran’s voice abruptly seems to boom. I wonder if he has moved closer to me?  I don’t dare look up – if he’s moved closer, any movement could catch his eye.

_Don’t give the game away. Hold steady._

“I have to admit it, Holmes. Jim said you were a genius, and only a genius could have set up that counterfeit document setup in Mogadishu.  How did you manage it? The place was hell on earth.”

I can just barely see Sherlock out of my peripheral vision now, as I have tipped my head to help focus on the Sig.  He shrugs.  He continues to deliberately not look at me.

_He is giving me time to reach the Sig._

My love’s voice has reverted to its usual disdainful tone.  “Oh, please. The place is a veritable war zone.  The country splintered into dozens of factions.  But money still talks, Colonel, and I had only to offer to finance the efforts of certain individuals, and I found I had a small army at my disposal.  It was hardly exceptionally clever.”

Moran nods, “Of course.  Your brother came in handy.  I suspected as much, but it’s nice to have it corroborated.”

If I didn’t know better, I would think that Moran’s voice holds admiration.  Almost.

Why the hell is Sherlock _chatting_ with Moran? Why this mutual admiration society?

 _Of course._ He must be aware that even though I’ve managed to grip the Sig, I cannot possibly do much with it. He’s buying time for Mycroft! Sherlock is stalling, hoping to give his brother and his men time to come to the rescue.

My glance towards Wiggins and Edwin, curled on the floor together, sends a chill through me.

Mycroft’s men were guarding the two of them. If their guards are both gone, then we can’t count on a rescue right away. We’re on our own.

_It’s time._

I loop my finger into the trigger guard, cautiously pushing up onto my elbow.

 _Give me this one.  Just this one.  I’m overdue.  You owe me_!   I wonder if anyone listens _._

I take as deep a breath as I am able, and feel the adrenaline surge as I start to lift the Sig…

And with _excruciating_ agony, the heavy tread of a black boot presses firmly down onto my wrist, crushing my fingers into releasing the gun.

  _No!_

Moran glances down at me, remarking idly,  “Bravo, Captain Watson.  I didn’t think you could even move that hand, given your injuries. But we both know that you cannot possibly lift that gun, let alone aim it.”

The crushing weight lifts from my boneless fingers, and with one swift move, Moran’s boot flashes. I watch in horror as the Sig skids across the wooden floor and into the open doorway, yards out of my reach.

My head drops to the floor, and I choke back a sob of frustration and despair.

_I’m so sorry, Sherlock._

I hear a determined click, impossible to ignore in the silence, and know that Moran has raised my gun.  His voice is utterly cold.  “No more stalling, Holmes.”

_No! This can’t be the end of it. It can’t! I can’t bear to watch him die again._

I close my eyes. 

Then I hear Sherlock’s choked reply.  “Colonel, will you allow me a last word to my partner?”

_Please, God. No. Please, oh please._

I open my eyes, and wish that I could raise my hand to brush the sweaty fringe away from them. I want to see my lover clearly, one last time.

Moran says, “Of course.  But make it quick.”

Sherlock’s verdigris eyes meet mine, and the grief in them is shattering. My heart squeezes unmercifully in my chest – my tingling, burning chest.

_I can’t bear this._

A wry hint of a smile jerks his remarkable lips upward at the corners. 

“It’s been a pleasure, John Watson.”

 _No!  God. No_. 

I am too far gone, in too much pain to ever know if I actually reply, or if it’s just my feverish brain supplying the words. 

“The pleasure has been all mine, love.”

“Enough.”

Time slows.  Moran raises the gun.  Sherlock’s eyes remain locked with mine and I realize he has no intention of looking at Moran again. 

At least our last sight will be of each other.

A shot rings out.

My eyes slam shut, unable to bear seeing the light go out of those quicksilver eyes. A body slumps heavily to the floor.

_Oh, my love. I’ll be there soon._

I open my eyes to face my executioner.

 _Moran_ is the body on the floor. Sherlock is still frozen in shock, now staring at Wiggins, who is clutching Adair’s gun in both hands, still cradling Edwin’s still form in her lap.

 

oOoOo

 

 


	20. Wait For Me

oOoOo

 

**Chapter 20: Wait For Me**

 

oOoOo

**_“Now everyone dreams of a love faithful and true,_ **

**_But you and I know what this world can do._ **

**_So let's make our steps clear so the other may see._ **

**_And I'll wait for you...should I fall behind, wait for me.”_ **

**_―_ ** **_Bruce Springsteen_ **

oOoOo

 

For a long, frozen moment, nobody moves. Then Wiggins’ white fingers, still clenched tight around Adair’s Glock 17, begin to tremble violently, along with her puckering chin.

She’s dangerous as hell right now. I’m in no position to talk her down, but someone has to, and Sherlock seems to have turned to marble.

“Wiggins,” I gasp out, trying not to moan at the burning pain that builds in my arms and shoulders. “Wiggins, it’s okay. Put the gun down, now. It’s all right.”

There’s no response. Her glassy, china-blue eyes gaze vacantly toward the space where Moran stood, rather than at his prone body, in a classic thousand-yard stare.

Sherlock finally seems to snap out of his own daze. He takes a slow, careful step towards his young protégé.

“Wiggins, it’s over,” he rasps, his voice still roughened from Moran’s chokehold. “Put down the gun.” He takes another measured step, then another, carefully skirting Adair’s motionless body as he draws close to her. “Wiggins?”

Finally, _finally_ , she blinks rapidly, and turns to focus on Sherlock. Her voice is shaky, higher than normal from adrenaline.

“I shot him.”

Sherlock reaches gently for the gun, carefully directing the muzzle away from himself, before easing it from her white-knuckled grip. Her emptied hands hang in the air for a moment, unsure of what to do.

“Yes, you shot him, to stop him from shooting me,” he murmurs. “I certainly prefer this outcome.”

Wiggins gives him a trembling little smile, and Sherlock returns it, before he turns his attention to the Glock in his hand. He efficiently ejects the magazine, pulls back the slide, expertly eyeballing the chamber and barrel to make sure the gun is empty; then, aiming carefully at the floor, pulls the trigger on the empty gun to decock it, before pushing the disarmed gun into his jacket pocket.

Bloody _hell_. When did my boyfriend become so proficient in handling a weapon? I can’t help but groan a bit at the sight. _We really, really need to talk about his time away._

Wiggins drops her attention to Edwin’s motionless form in her lap, but Sherlock whirls towards me, drawn by my groan. Gracefully sidestepping Moran’s sprawled body, Sherlock leaps across the room in a couple of long strides, dropping to his knees beside me.

“John!” Long, trembling fingers slip down to my throat, feeling for my carotid pulse. I try to give him a reassuring smile as he cups my cheek in his shaking palm.

“I think we could use that ambulance now, love,” I gasp, still fighting the burning pain in my neck and shoulders. The sharp tingling has spread to my mid-chest and upper back now, and while it’s reassuring to have some sensation returning, it’s also quite unpleasant. I try to suppress a shiver, since it seems to worsen the crushing, burning pain, but it’s so _cold_ in here…

“Hold on, John. I’m calling Mycroft.”

Behind him, I hear Wiggins crying, “Edwin! God damn it, Edwin, _breathe!”_

_Edwin! How could I have forgotten the brilliant young man who risked his life to help Sherlock? Adair shot him in the gut…if he’s already unconscious, already apneic, then he’s probably hemorrhaging badly…kidney? Liver?_

There’s a rhythmic pounding now, the sounds of CPR all too familiar to an old army medic. _I should really get up and help her…_

My detachment from the situation should be more unsettling than it is. I’m starting to drift again, the roar of waterfalls and machine-gun fire building again in my ears. Shivering, I watch as Sherlock snatches his mobile from his pocket, powering it on and dialing with shaking fingers.

When it is answered almost instantly, he barks, “We need an ambulance and backup _now!_ Agents down – _John_ is down, Mycroft! _John!_ For the love of God, _hurry!”_

Wiggins is grimly pounding away at Edwin’s chest in rhythmic compressions now, pausing every ten pumps to breathe into his slack, unresponsive mouth. She is gasping for breath, pushing her own body to the utmost to keep Edwin’s body going. His glazed, lifeless eyes gaze unseeingly towards the ceiling.

_Danny Foley, bleeding out in the sands of Afghanistan…_

Sherlock drops the phone to the floor with a clatter and crouches over me, absolutely oblivious to the drama going on just behind him.

As sirens begin to wail nearby, he gently strokes my cheek, my hair, pleading, “Stay with me, John. Talk to me, John. _Please.”_

Warm drops fall onto my cheek. _Is it raining in here?_

 _No. It’s tears falling on my face…_ Sherlock’s _tears._

I blink up at him, trying to clear my increasingly blurry vision. That’s _amazing_ – Sherlock is surrounded by a sparkling silver aura that matches his tear-filled eyes. _How is he doing that?_

I want to stroke his face, to soothe his tears away. I try to reach out for him, but my fingers only twitch vaguely. Sherlock gently presses my hand down to hold it still, covering it with his own trembling palm.

“Do not move, John!” he barks, his voice distorted by a sob. “It’s imperative you remain as immobile as possible. The ambulance is just outside. They’re almost here.”

He strokes my sweaty fringe back from my eyes. _How can I be sweating when it’s so cold?_

“ _Talk_ to me, John, _please!”_ Sherlock begs.

I gaze into his wide, terrified eyes, thinking of how close I’ve just come to losing him again. My heart is so full of love for this man. _Why can’t I summon up the words to tell him what I’m feeling? And what is that roaring sound, anyway?_

“Sh’lock…” _Hmmm. I’m slurring a bit._ I clear my throat, and try again. “Sherrrrr…”

It’s no good.

As feet pound up the stairs, with shouts of the first responders echoing through the empty house, the sparkling grey mist surrounding Sherlock descends on me, blotting out the light.

oOoOo

“Doctor Watson?”

I can hear the muted activity of an intensive care unit: beeping monitors, murmuring voices, rubber-soled shoes squeaking on lino floors. I struggle to open my eyes. My eyelids are so bloody heavy…too heavy…

“Doctor Watson,” the voice repeats. “You’re out of surgery now, in the recovery room. You need to remember to breathe.”

_Oh. Breathing. That’s right. Funny the things one forgets._

“Doctor Watson?”

_Bloody hell. Can’t they see that I’m sleeping?_

“Doctor Watson, you need to take another breath.”

_Breathing’s boring._

I drift again…

oOoOo

“Johnny?” Harry’s voice rouses me. “Johnny, can you hear me?”

I open my eyes. Harry looks terrible – dark circles beneath her eyes, the skin pouched and puffy from crying. Her short, stylishly cut ash-blonde curls are limp and unbrushed. The revolting greenish-beige of the cubicle’s privacy curtain behind her does her no favors, rendering her normally golden-toned skin sallow and dull.

My throat is burning, alarmingly full and tight, and I recognize the sensation of a trach tube in my airway. I may be an old hand at this; as a surgeon, I know intellectually that the tube is there to help me. But the visceral panic that rises in my gut is a hardwired response, and I try to lift my hand, to tear away the obstruction to my breathing.

I can’t move my hands.

My terror skyrockets, and the heart monitor beeps frantically. Gentle but firm hands grip my shoulders, and a soothing voice says, “You’re all right, Doctor Watson. Just relax.”

An orderly gently grips Harry’s arm, urging her back toward the gap in the curtain.

“Ms Watson, we’ll need you to return to the waiting area while we extubate him.” She is resistant, gazing back over her shoulder at me.

Then the nurse who has been trying to calm me injects something into my IV, and as my panic fades, so does the sight of my sister, her hazel eyes wide with fear as she reluctantly leaves the cubicle.

As I drift back off, I wonder… _where is Sherlock?_

_Oh, Jesus…was it all just a dream?_

oOoOo

 

Yet again, the first thing I’m aware of is the steady beeping of a heart monitor. Opening my eyes is still an inordinately difficult task. When I finally manage it, a warm shaft of sunlight from a large picture window beside me falls across the white thermal blanket tucked around my body – and casts an auburn glow through the tumble of short, dark curls resting on the bed beside my right hip. I try to lift my hand to stroke through those silky locks.

I can’t move my hand.

“John?”

I must have made some noise in my panic, because Sherlock is sitting up now, looking rumpled and sleep-mussed. He scrambles to press the call button. A woman’s cool voice responds almost immediately.

“How can I help you?”

“Doctor Watson is awake,” snaps Sherlock sharply. “Please alert Miss Bhamra and Doctor Sorenson without delay.”

“They’ll be paged straight away, Mister Holmes,” she replies, and the intercom goes dead.

Sherlock turns back to me. He has a frankly alarming black eye, as well as numerous contusions, some bandaged with butterfly strips, and horrifying, finger-shaped bruises stand out lividly against the pale column of his throat. Smudges of exhaustion shadow his eyes. The weave of my thermal blanket is firmly imprinted across his right cheek in dark pink checks. I want to touch that imprint, feel the creases and divots on his normally smooth skin… _but I can’t lift my hand._

I groan in horror, and try again to move – and discover that my hand has merely been restrained by the firmly-tucked blanket, nothing more. I _can_ lift my hand. _Oh, thank God._ I try wriggling my legs, and am relieved to find that I can control them again, despite the rather snug blankets. Unfortunately, the rigid cervical collar brace around my neck is far more confining.

Sherlock helps me to extricate my hand from the confines of the blanket, for which I’m grateful – my arm feels remarkably weak. He lifts my fingertips to his lips and kisses them softly, then cradles my hand gently against his chest.

“How are you feeling?”

“Thirsty,” I manage to rasp out. My mouth is dryer than a desert, my throat painfully raw from intubation.

Sherlock carefully lays my hand back down on the bed, before pouring me a cup of water from the plastic carafe on the bedside table. I watch the graceful dance of his fingers as he pours, unwraps a drinking straw, drops the straw into the cup and brings it my lips.

“Slowly now,” he says, as the first sip wends its glorious way across my tongue and down my abused throat. I want to remind him that I’m a _doctor_ , thank you, and know how to manage post-surgical care – but I’m too busy savouring the magnificent, brilliant perfection of _water_. I’m embarrassed at my whimper of protest when Sherlock takes the cup away.

“You can have more in a few minutes,” he soothes me, stroking my fringe back from my forehead. I want to lean my cheek into his hand, but the cervical collar on my neck holds me rigidly in one position. I weakly lift my hand towards it.

“That has to stay put for now, John,” Sherlock says, capturing my fingers in his own.

Before I can argue, a gorgeous nurse of Amazonian proportions enters the room. Her dark hair has been braided into dozens of tiny cornrows, which are gathered up in a loose, twisting coil on top of her head, emphasizing her extraordinary height.

“Good morning, Doctor Watson,” she says in a melodic Caribbean accent. “I’m Grace, your nurse for this morning. How are you feeling?”

She approaches the right side of the bed, gently rearranging the blankets to access my other arm and chest, taking my vitals in an efficient, unobtrusive way. Then she reaches for my left hand, meeting Sherlock’s gaze in a silent request for him to relinquish it. With a huff he lets go. She merely smiles, revealing a dazzling mouthful of white teeth, and she checks my IV port. I can’t help smiling back – you’d have to be dead to resist such a smile.

As soon as Grace releases my hand, Sherlock threads his fingers through mine, shooting her a jealous glare.

“When might we expect Miss Bhamra and Doctor Sorenson?” he asks. “I would have assumed that they would be anxious to check on their patient.”

She chuckles. “They’ll be along shortly, Mister Holmes. I took the liberty of alerting your brother as well, as he requested.”

“Bloody Mycroft,” grumbles Sherlock.

She smilingly ignores him. I find myself impressed with her composure – Sherlock tends to discomfit most of the people around him, and this nurse is no more ruffled than I usually am. She finishes her tasks, then asks if I’m in much pain. When I indicate that the pain is manageable for now, she hands me the call button and takes her leave. As the door closes behind her, I shift my gaze to Sherlock.

“Sherlock – where are we?” I croak.

“You’re at the National*, John.” His voice still has the throaty rasp of his near-strangling by Moran. “You’ve just had posterior spinal fusion surgery to stabilise your spine. The body armour protected you from penetration by the bullet, but the impact was still hard enough to fracture your C6 and C7 cervical vertebrae. The impact also caused a high degree of transient cervical cord neuropraxia, which is why you were temporarily paralysed.”

I grin weakly at him.

“You sound like you’ve been studying.”

Sherlock scoffs.

“It’s useful information. You never know when this might be pertinent to a case.” He pauses, and his expression softens. “Besides, John, what else could I do for the hours you were in surgery? I thought I would go mad, thinking I was losing you.”

I regard him thoughtfully.

“No, not a very nice sensation, is it?” I whisper.

He blanches, his eyes unable to meet mine.

“I’m so sorry, John. I’ll apologise again for putting you through that – every day for the rest of my life, if you need for me to do so. I will _not_ , however, apologise for saving your life. I would do anything to avoid losing that.”

_I can either keep browbeating him for this, or we can make a fresh start._

“It’s all fine, Sherlock. Just…never leave me out of a decision like that again, okay? I was absolutely lost without you.”

His soft lips brush across my knuckles, and I accept the tacit apology.

Suddenly, I realize…

“Sherlock – what happened to Edwin? And Wiggins?”

“Edwin?” Sherlock blinks rapidly. “Oh, yes - Edwin is just next door at the Royal London. They were able to resuscitate him at the scene, and he underwent emergency surgery. It was close, but they were able to save him. He’ll be in hospital for a while, but he should survive. Wiggins is watching over him like a mother hen, Mycroft tells me.”

Oh, thank _Christ_. If that poor boy had been killed, I’d have carried the burden of his death along with Danny Foley and Aisha Wazir, people that I’ve let down when I was needed.

At that moment, there is a tap on the doorframe, and Doctor Nigel Sorenson, my GP, enters the room. His milk-white, freckled face breaks into a smile when he sees me.

“Good morning, John! It’s great to see you awake.” He walks over and reaches out to shake my hand. Sherlock reluctantly releases my hand again, and withdraws to a chair in the corner, allowing the doctor room to work, but avidly watching every step.

I manage to extend my hand to shake Dr Sorenson’s, dismayed by the residual weakness of my arm and hand. He takes my hand in his, and the handshake turns into an assessing grasp, testing the strength of my grip. Then, he has me grip two of his fingers and tug on them, then tells me to spread my fingers wide as they can go and hold them firm, while he attempts to press them together again. Next, he turns my hand over to fold my fingers into a fist, and presses my hand down towards the floor.

“Extend your wrist for me?” He presses against the top of my hand, testing the strength of my resistance against the pressure. “Good.”

As he pulls out a reflex hammer, beginning to tap and evaluate the reflexes in my elbow and forearm, there’s a rap at the door. It opens to admit Grace, the nurse from earlier. She is closely followed by a tiny woman in a white coat, her thick, dark hair pulled up into a coil at the nape of her neck. Warm, brown eyes sweep appraisingly over me.

“Good morning, Dr Watson, I’m Rupa Bhamra, your neurosurgeon.” Despite her diminutive size, the confidence with which she moves could rival Sherlock’s usual presence. “Dr Sorenson, how is our patient?”

Dr Sorenson offers her his usual jovial grin. “Normal reflex response in most of the right arm, except for slightly diminished brachioradialis reflex. I was just about to check the left.” He circles the bed and peels the blanket back from my left shoulder, exposing that arm and hand so that he can continue his grip assessment, then repeats the reflex series. He pauses, rechecks my left forearm, frowning slightly.

“A touch of clonus present on the left, and slightly diminished brachioradialis reflex in both arms.” He looks up at me, peering over the edge of his rimless spectacles. “Is this stronger than your previous tremor?”

“Not really,” I say, glancing over at Sherlock. His brows have contracted down into a worried frown. “Maybe a little stronger, but I am feeling pretty weak right now.”

Miss Bhamra nods. “Ah, this would be the intermittent tremor from your previous gunshot wound.” She shakes her head, adding, “It’s a shame you could not have come to me at that time. It’s entirely possible that we could have done something to minimize the neurological effects of that injury.”

_Well, hell, that’s fantastic. Nothing like finding out that a permanent tremor could have been avoided._

“Still,” she continues, “we won’t allow such a muddle to happen this time.” She moves down to expose my legs and feet, pulls a Wartenberg pinwheel from her pocket, and continues the neuro evaluation, and I can’t help but smile at the sensation of mildly painful pinpricks running down my legs and over my feet _._

_Thank God, my legs still work._

As I follow Miss Bhamra’s instructions to flex and extend my legs and feet in various ways, I’m more grateful than words can ever say. That horrid absence of feeling as I lay on the floor of the empty house was utterly terrifying, and the relief at experiencing normal sensation in my legs is enormous.

Sherlock’s laser-like gaze follows her every movement. He asks a few pointed questions, demonstrating his sudden startling knowledge of neurology, and she answers him with cool assurance, unruffled by his imperious attitude. My respect for this tiny woman’s collected bedside manner grows by leaps and bounds.

Miss Bhamra finally resettles the blanket around my feet, washes her hands again, and dons gloves before laying the bed flat and carefully rolling me to my side with the help of Grace and Dr. Sorenson. After carefully opening the rigid cervical collar, she peels back the dressing on the back of my neck, closely examining my incision. With a pleased hum, she reapplies the dressing; then refastens the bloody uncomfortable collar, resettling me on my back and inclining the bed again.

“Sorry, Dr Watson – I know it’s not the most comfortable device in the world. We’ll need to keep your neck immobilised for about six weeks, possibly longer. It’s imperative that you follow this instruction, in order to avoid possible spinal nerve damage.”

I groan inwardly at the restriction, but force a smile.

“I understand. I’m lucky to be here – I’m not going to chance ruining that.”

Dr Sorensen grins at me. “Bloody close call you had there, John.”

“Quite,” adds Miss Bhamra. “Dr Watson, you are going to need to undergo extensive physiotherapy, in order to regain as much of your neurological function in your arms as possible. It is entirely possible that you may experience some permanent weakening in your hands and forearms, but we will do our best to help you regain full function. I am…” she pauses, then continues, “...optimistic for your chances of a complete recovery.”

_A complete recovery._

My eyes meet an opalescent gaze that burns across the room with so many unspoken emotions. Miss Bhamra and Dr Sorensen are both still talking, but I ignore them completely as I reach out weakly towards Sherlock.

He stumbles forwards from his chair in the corner to seize my hand, and then his warm, trembling lips are on mine, completely oblivious to the medical team standing around us. He’ll never forgive himself later for losing his self-control like this, but I don’t give a good goddamn as I manage to lift my other hand to cradle the stubbly jaw, and kiss my exhausted lover…my fiancé…my everything.

 

OoOoO

 

_* The National Hospital for Neurology (NHNN) and Neurosurgery and Institute of Neurology (ION) in Whitechapel, London. Often referred to as The National or Queen Square. Adjacent to the Royal London Hospital._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a couple of people ask me why the neurosurgeon was referred to as "Miss" instead of Doctor. The custom in the UK is that a member of the Royal College of Surgeons is addressed as Mr, Mrs or Miss rather than Doctor. It is a custom that helps to distinguish them from doctors who have not achieved Consultant status. Here's a Wikipedia article that breaks it down better: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Medical_education_in_the_United_Kingdom


	21. Perspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, this WIP is not abandoned! I've just finished this one, and am working on the final chapter. My hope is to post it in the next week or two. From now on, if I write a fic, I'm writing the whole thing before posting - it was dreadfully unfair to do to you, my wonderful readers.
> 
> Thank you so much to all of you who commented here or on FF.net, as well as those who messaged me on tumblr and deviantart. I really, truly treasure every kind bit of feedback, and it thrills me to pieces to think that people have enjoyed something I wrote enough to leave comments and kudos. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

oOoOo

 

**Chapter 21: Perspective**

 

oOoOo

 

**_“Your perspective on life comes from the cage you were held captive in.”_ **

**_―_ ** **_Shannon Alder_ **

oOoOo

 

When I went through physio after I took a bullet to the shoulder in Afghanistan, my American physiotherapist, a petite ginger named Shirley, often wore a t-shirt that read, “PT stands for Pain and Torture.”

She had a point.

My current physio, Abdi, certainly subscribes to the theory that if it’s not hurting, it’s not working. I still feel ridiculous, becoming winded by simple exercises using only a theraband for resistance, but he is determined to get a strong head start on strengthening and stabilizing the muscles of my upper back, shoulders and arms, even while observing the activity restrictions that are in place for my neck. The exercises he has taught me should be simple, but I still find them exhausting.

As I struggle to finish my final set of arm curls, Abdi leans in close.

“Come on, Doc – focus! Three more! Really put some effort into these…three! That’s it…two!” A huge grin breaks over his dark, handsome face. “Last one…great!”

I’m profoundly grateful to allow my arms to drop, as the spinal injury has left me with all the strength of a toddler. Abdi sits back, and his slim, agile fingers unwrap the therabands from my grip, coil them into a neat loop, and drop them onto the table nearby.

“All right, Doc, you are finally done with your last inpatient physio session! How are you feeling about that? Are you ready to go home?”

Wiping the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, I take a long pull at my water bottle, then smile tiredly back at him.

“Yeah, I’ve been ready. Sherlock’s already taken most of my things back to Baker Street, and he’ll be back this afternoon to pick me up.”

Grace, my usual nurse, has arrived to walk me back to my room. Abdi and I rise to our feet, and he extends a hand. I can see him assessing my grip as I shake hands with him. I try to squeeze a bit harder, and he laughs.

“I reckon you’ll do just fine, Doctor Watson. I’ll see you on Thursday. Don’t forget these!” He passes me the looped therabands, then squeezes my shoulder. “Remember – the more regular you are with your physiotherapy, the less time you’ll have to spend with me.”

He tips Grace a cheeky wink, and flirtatious smile. “I’ll see _you_ later, Miss Grace.”

She tosses that glorious crown of braids, raising an eyebrow at him; but I see a dimple in her cheek as she bids him a good day, and we begin the slow walk back to my room from the physio gym.

As I pass through the ward of neuro patients, I’m profoundly grateful for Mycroft’s influence, which ensured that I have spent my recovery time in a private room, instead of a ward bed. Trying to keep Sherlock from alienating everyone on the ward is hard enough when there are doors to close behind him. I shudder to imagine how he would have behaved these past couple of weeks, if he had been set loose on the general patient population.

Grace carries my walker slung casually over her back, making no attempt to try and get me to use it. The hospital requires that I have a stabilization device when walking the corridors, but my recovery has progressed to the point of no longer needing it to maintain my balance. She catches my sidelong glare at the walker, and laughs, her head thrown back in amusement.

“You’ll be glad to be rid of this old thing, and no mistake,” she says, swinging it back down from her shoulder as we enter my room. She parks it in a corner, then turns to face me.

“Will you be needing any help with your shower, Doctor Watson?”

“I can take care of that, thanks,” rumbles a deep baritone from the door. We both turn to see Sherlock leaning casually against the doorframe. Dark smudges shadow his silvery eyes, but otherwise he looks as natty as he ever did – if one discounts the weight loss that has left his formerly snug shirt loose across the expanse of his chest.

Grace’s dimple appears again, and she gives me a sidelong smirk.

“Hmmmm…mind you leave the collar _on_ , then.”

Sherlock catches her knowing glance, and scowls at her. “We are capable of following the same instructions we’ve followed for days now,” he growls.

Unfazed, Grace smirks at us as she moves to the door, filling her palm with antibacterial foam before she closes the door behind her. Sherlock turns back to me, grumbling under his breath.

“Ridiculous woman – honestly, it was only that _one_ time,” he mutters, as he closes the door and moves to assist me in undressing. I can’t help but shiver at his touch as he unbuttons my shirt, allowing his cool fingertips to linger more than strictly necessary.

“Well, to be fair, Sherlock, you did give her quite an eyeful,” I laugh, as I remember a few days previous, and Grace’s unflappable demeanor shaken at last, when she opened the bathroom door to find Sherlock on his knees before me, his gorgeously full lips wrapped around my enthusiastic erection. Her dark eyes had been comically wide, as she gasped and hastily closed the door.

Remembering her incensed cry of, “Doctor Watson, you put that cervical collar back on _right now,”_ I find myself giggling again, as much as I did on that day.

“Reckon we could get away with an encore?” I ask, grinning at my fiancé. His multifaceted eyes glow at me, as he, too, remembers that afternoon. He bites his lower lip; then resolutely moves on to assist me with removing my shoes.

“Let’s save it for Baker Street,” Sherlock chuckles. “Come on, John – let’s get you cleaned up, and go home.”

“I do want to make one stop first, you know.”

Sherlock sobers, and nods. “I know.”

 

oOoOo

 

It’s only a short walk from The National to the Royal London Hospital next door. After my discharge is complete, Sherlock and I slowly, carefully negotiate the few steps to the pavement on Queen Square; then turn left, to make our way to the corner of Boswell and Great Ormond Streets.* Closing my eyes for a moment, I lift my head to savour the rush of a fresh, cool breeze on my face.

It is a lovely day, and the sound of the wind rustling the leaves in Queen Square is music to my ears after a long hospital stay. The pure pleasure of walking arm-in-arm with Sherlock, feeling the warmth of his body against my side, our steps naturally syncing up as we stroll slowly along the pavement, is such a rush of joy for me. I feel a lump rise in my throat, knowing that I’d thought I would never have this simple pleasure again. As always, Sherlock seems to read my mind, squeezing my arm a little tighter with his own.

“I know, John,” he murmurs softly. “I know.”

I squeeze back, and swallow the emotion back down. The time of mourning is over, and it feels a bit ridiculous to find walking down a street together to be so poignant. It’s time to look forward, not back. I smile at my fiancé, and try to put a little more spring into my step.

I’m easily exhausted, however, and am grateful for Sherlock’s arm by the time we reach the long accessibility ramp that leads to the door of the Royal London. As we enter the front doors, Sherlock steps away, only to materialize beside me a moment later with a patient transport wheelchair. It’s a sign of how worn out I’m feeling that I don’t bother to argue, but simply sit gratefully in the chair.

Sherlock wheels me along to the acute care floor, and navigates his way through corridors painted with cheerful murals with the ease of a frequent visitor. We pause outside the partly-closed door of a private room, and peer inside.

A motionless figure slumps in a visitor’s chair beside an empty hospital bed. I glance up at Sherlock, slightly alarmed, and he nods reassurance as he knocks on the doorframe. Instantly, the visitor’s head whips up in a tangle of mousy-brown hair, and Wiggins’ fierce blue eyes dart back and forth between us.

“Where is Edwin?” asks Sherlock, as he wheels me into the room.

“Dialysis,” she replies, relaxing a bit as she recognizes us.

Poor Edwin has not had nearly as much success in his recovery as I have. Having arrested at the scene, and once more in the OR, the main focus of his care initially was simply keeping him alive, and stopping the internal bleeding. Unfortunately, that was only the beginning of his troubles.

Penetrating abdominal trauma, especially perforation of the small bowel, as Edwin had, frequently leads to peritonitis, an infection of the lining of the abdominal cavity. Unfortunately, Edwin’s peritonitis led to sepsis, a system-wide infection that put a great deal of strain on his other organs, especially his liver and kidneys. We thought we were going to lose him, but his youth – and the excellent care provided by the Royal London – has helped to pull him through. While there is hope that he may recover some kidney function, he still needs dialysis at this point in order to cleanse the toxins from his blood.

I glance around the room, and recognize one of Mrs Hudson’s food cartons on the bedside table. Mrs Hudson has always been a pushover when it comes to rescuing strays, and it’s easy to spot the signs of her motherly instincts at work. Mrs Hudson has been a nonstop presence during the recovery from our confrontation with Moran and Adair, baking biscuits and bringing meals by the hospital; first for Sherlock, then for me as I improved, and obviously for Wiggins as well, once she learned of the young woman’s constant vigil by Edwin’s side.

‘Wotcher, Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson,” sighs Wiggins, with a tired smile. Her haggard, gaunt face is haunting, and I wonder if she has gotten any sleep in the past weeks. Probably not much.

“Wiggins, why haven’t you been staying in the room my brother arranged for you?” Sherlock asks.

Defiant blue eyes meet coolly analytical, silver ones.

“You know me, Mister Holmes – I don’t want that sort o’ thing. He’s helpin’ Edwin out, and that’s enough for me. I don’t need anythin’ from ‘im.”

Sherlock’s gaze never leaves hers, and after a pause he nods slowly. “All right.”

A rattle at the door startles us, and Wiggins jumps to her feet as the nurse’s aide wheels an ancient-looking, skeletal man with deeply jaundiced skin and a distended abdomen into the room.

“Edwin!” she cries – and I’m deeply dismayed to realize that the emaciated figure on the gurney is none other than our young genius. While I knew, intellectually, that Edwin’s liver and kidneys had been compromised, it’s another thing altogether to see the damage wrought by sepsis and multi-organ failure. The deeply-sunken eyes that once sparkled with keen intelligence now gaze dully ahead, with little life or interest in them.

I’m speechless. Yet I know better than to sit here staring – I’m a doctor, for God’s sake! I need to pull it together. The nurse’s aid finishes getting Edwin into bed, gives him his call light, and smiles his way out of the room.

While I’m still struggling to find words to greet Edwin, Sherlock seems to have no trouble. Of course, he has been here frequently, checking in on his two young protégées.

“Ah, Edwin – looking better today, I see.”

 _(This is looking better? Edwin must have looked_ horrific _.)_

Edwin’s dull gaze brightens a bit, and he looks up at Sherlock with a hint of a smile.

“Alrigh’, Mister ‘Olmes?” Those sunken eyes move slowly from him to me, and the smile widens slightly. “Doctor Watson – they finally lettin’ you out?”

“Errr…yeah.”

“No offense, Doc, but yer lookin’ a mite ropey,” Edwin says, with a hint of a cheeky smirk.

And I’m finally startled into conversation. “Well, that’s a bit rich, coming from you!”

Edwin snorts with weak laughter. I find myself laughing, too, but also looking him over with a more critical eye. Now I can see that the appearance of age is largely due to his extreme weight loss, combined with the jaundice. It doesn’t help that someone has clipped his formerly long hair quite close to the scalp, while beard stubble has grown out on his face, accentuating his already gaunt cheekbones and jawline.

Still, as I look closer, I can see the hopeful signs of a recovering patient: an ease of movement that indicates a lack of pain, excellent oxygen saturation and heart rate on the monitors beside him, and a certain, indefinable quality that you learn to recognize as a doctor, a sort of energy that is missing in the dangerously ill. Edwin doesn’t have a great deal of that vibe yet, but it is there.

Hearing a keyboard clatter behind me, I turn to see Sherlock logging in to the computer terminal in the corner.

“Sherlock!” I hiss reprovingly, knowing I should be more scandalized at him hacking so nonchalantly into the NHS computer system. Aquamarine eyes glance dismissively over his shoulder at me, as he taps away at the wall-mounted keyboard, pulling up a patient chart.

“Here, John – take a look at Edwin’s chart and tell me what you think.”

I look at Edwin, and he gives me a wry grin. “Go on, Doc – I’da cracked into the system long since if I had the medical know how. Take a gander an’ give me yer honest opinion.”

Rising unsteadily from the wheelchair, I step up beside Sherlock to glance over Edwin’s chart. Sherlock draws me closer to the monitor on the wall, and I’m aware again of the warm, solid reality of his body beside mine, and the citrusy tang of his unique scent makes my heart trip just a little bit faster in my chest.

Reading over the surgical notes in Edwin’s chart, as well as the nursing notes during his stay in ICU, it’s amazing that he pulled though. I’m looking over his liver and kidney values, though, and I can see that the numbers are improving daily.

“It’s still uncertain, but I’d say it’s quite likely that your liver will recover. I’m less certain about your kidneys, but you’re young – I’d give them a pretty good shot at coming back, as well.” I look him hard in the eye, and say, “You’ll need to keep fit, and stay away from alcohol and drugs, though, Edwin – you can’t tempt fate after an injury like this.”

Edwin chuckles weakly in reply. “I’ve never really messed around wit’ either one, Doctor Watson. The one time I tried, Wiggins put paid to that in a ‘urry. Said she didn’ want me followin’ in Mister Holmes’ footsteps…” he trails off, looking embarrassed, as Sherlock shoots him a dark look.

“Excellent progress, Edwin,” Sherlock says, as he pointedly logs out of the computer and steers me by the elbow to resume my seat in the wheelchair. Despite the brief time spent standing, I’m grateful to sit again.

Sherlock draws up the other hard, plastic chair, arranging it so he can sit beside me.

“So what’s next for you, Edwin?” I ask, worrying about his care once he is discharged.

“Mister Holmes – Mister Mycroft Holmes, tha’ is – has arranged a shelter for a few weeks, until I’m on my feet again. Then ‘e says I’m headed for Glasgow, goin’ to uni, learnin’ to make prosthetics an’ all.” Edwin smiles, and looks gratefully at Sherlock. “It’s wha’ I’ve wanted ta do since I were a little lad. I’ve always thought I could make robotic arms an’ such that’d work better than the dross you see soldiers comin’ ‘ome with.”

Sherlock smiles approvingly at Edwin at his mention of soldiers, and glances at me. “I feel certain Doctor Watson would be glad to write a letter of recommendation, should the need arise, if you want to make a connection with an army hospital after you finish university.”

“Absolutely,” I add. “God knows, they could use more minds like yours working at Headley Court.”**

Edwin grins weakly at me. “Cheers, Doc. That’d be champion.”

A tap at the door interrupts the conversation, and a petite, blonde nurse in royal blue scrubs steps in.

“I’m sorry, but Mister Haley really needs to get some rest,” she says, glancing at each of us in turn. “Dialysis takes a lot out of him right now.”

Sherlock rises immediately, and turns my chair towards the door.

“We’ll be back again, Edwin,” he says, giving his young protégé a nod. “Wiggins, join us for a cuppa?”

Wiggins picks up her rucksack, shakes her hair back from her eyes, and nods. The three of us bid Edwin goodbye, and his eyes are already closing before the nurse has even closed the door behind us.

Wiggins wordlessly leads the way through the brightly-painted corridors, to the ground floor canteen. The three of us find a table in a quiet corner, and Wiggins offers to go get three cups of tea. She waves off our offer of money, but I notice Sherlock clandestinely slipping a few folded notes into her pocket as she turns away, and smile to myself. _Sociopath, my arse._

Sherlock stretches his legs out before his chair, tipping his head back to gaze at the ceiling, as he absently twines his fingers with mine. _How did I ever take for granted the simple pleasure of feeling these long, graceful fingers enfolded in my own?_ I softly caress the back of his hand with my thumb, grateful to be able to feel the texture of his smooth skin, and the crisp little hairs that grow so sparsely there.

“So, what do you really think, John – will Edwin survive?” The worry that Sherlock didn’t allow to cross his face in the hospital room is showing now in the lines between his brows.

“He’s young, and his numbers are improving,” I reply, “But what have his doctors said?”

“They seem hopeful – but you know that you’re the only doctor I truly trust,” he says, squeezing my hand in his.

I laugh softly. “I’d think you’d feel a bit of trust towards Miss Bhamra and Doctor Sorenson by now.”

“Only because you weren’t available to treat yourself,” he replies, in a haughty voice, but with a smile tugging the corner of his mouth.

“Idiot,” I say fondly, squeezing his hand in return.

We look up as Wiggins approaches our table with a small tray bearing three paper cups of steaming tea, a small beaker of milk, and sugar packets.

“Here you are, Doctor Watson, Mister Holmes – their tea isn’t the worst,” she says, placing cups before us both, then sitting and adding an obscene amount of sugar to hers. Sherlock adds milk to his own cup, but before he can take a sip, his phone chimes. Pulling it free from his trouser pocket, he checks the message, frowning.

“Mycroft is insisting that I call him. The git never will understand the superiority of texting as a form of communication. So tedious.” He pulls on the replacement Belstaff that Mycroft magicked up from somewhere, swirling its long folds around him. “John, will you stay here with Wiggins for a moment?”

“Of course.” I’m actually glad to have a few minutes to talk to this strange young woman, who Sherlock trusted with his secret when he couldn’t even trust me.

_That still stings a lot more than I would like._

Sherlock steps quickly out of the main doors in order to make his call, and a heavy silence settles awkwardly between us. For a few moments, Wiggins and I just watch him oscillating on the pavement outside of our window.

At last Wiggins turns back to me, her gaze twitchy and nervous. After a moment, she breaks the quiet with a decisive question.

“How do ya get used ta bein’ a killer, Doctor Watson?”

Startled, I meet her eyes.

“What do you mean?”

A wry, annoyed expression crosses her face. “You know what I mean, Doctor Watson. You’re a soldier - you’ve shot men before.” She swallows hard, and adds, “How do ya make the guilt go away?”

_Oh._

Well, I’m probably not the best person to give her guidance on this, but it’s not like she has a lot of resources for dealing with the aftermath of taking a life.

I shift in my wheelchair seat, wishing yet again that the damn cervical collar didn’t force my head and neck into such a high position. _It’s going to be a long few months._ I gather my thoughts for a moment, then try to answer her question.

“I think it’s probably different for each person, Wiggins,” I start, suddenly, realizing my error. “Wait, I’m sorry, your name is actually Valentine Macdonald, isn’t it? Would you rather be called Valentine?”

Her reaction is startling; fury twists and darkens her face, changing her features to something frightful, seething with loathing and wrath.

“Don’t you _ever_ call me that,” she hisses. “My _name_ is Wiggins. Just _Wiggins_.”

_Christ – did I ever say the wrong thing there!_

“Sorry…I’m really sorry,” I stammer, taken aback by her vehemence. “But – can I ask you why you chose Wiggins as your name?”

I know I’m treading on thin ice here, but I don’t understand. I had no idea that this quiet girl could be so volatile.

She watches me silently for a moment, and I’m put in mind of a spooked, untamed animal, considering approaching a human for the first time. I remember Sherlock’s description of her when we were in the cave in Dartmoor:

_“Wiggins is a bit like a feral cat, I think. She still looks like the rest of us, but has reverted to the wild type. She is unwilling to allow others to domesticate her. So I do what I can – pay her enough to allow her to eat well and afford shelter in inclement weather, and provide her with a sort of unofficial protection. She would refuse anything more.”_

I wait, unmoving, trying to show her with body language and patience that I’m no threat to her. Slowly, Wiggins relaxes back from her hunched position in the chair, and finally pushes the tangle of hair back from her haggard face.

“Did you ever read Ender’s Game, Doctor Watson?”

Surprised, it takes me a minute to track what she’s talking about. After a moment an old paperback book, passed around in the ward of Camp Bastion Hospital, comes to mind.

“Yes, I believe I did – kids battling aliens, right?”

She laughs, rather bitterly.

“Right. That’s the one. The sister’s name is _Valentine_.” She _spits_ the name as though it is the foulest of epithets. “She’s the sweet ‘un, the gentle ‘un. Valentine Wiggin.” She studies her cup of tea for a moment, then says, “Right after I made it out on my own, I picked up that book in a shelter, an’ I really liked it. That author gets it – adults can’t be trusted. Ever. I liked the way the kids took charge o’ their own lives.”

She falls silent, and I’m breathless, never having expected to hear such an impassioned speech from this normally quiet young woman. After a moment, I hesitantly ask.

“So…why didn’t you choose just ‘Wiggin,’ with no ‘s’?”

“Because I’m _not_ named after Valentine Wiggin. I chose my name for all _three_ o’ the Wiggin siblings – _not_ just the sister, but the ruthless brothers that fight and kill when they have to in order to win the game. My name is _Wiggins_ – _plural_. So I never forget that I can fight if I must.”

I find myself gazing at her in admiration, this woman who has been forged in the fires of absolute hell, and thank God that Sherlock had her watching his back while he was gone. At that moment, all of my bitterness towards Wiggins for her part in the deception is swept away. I smile at her.

“Well, Wiggins, I think you just answered your own question. How do you get used to having killed someone? I think you consider the situation, and ask yourself if the world is a better, safer place with that person gone. I’ve seen people die, good people, and couldn’t sleep for knowing they were gone. I’d have no trouble sleeping if my bullet had been the one to take out a monster like Moran.”

She considers that for a moment, and even smiles a bit. “Maybe you’re right.”

We sip our tea in silence, as I consider the best way to ask another thing that has been bothering me. Sherlock is still talking intensely on his phone outside, but I know that his patience with voice calls is pretty short. If I want to talk to Wiggins about this, now is probably my only chance.

Hesitantly, I ask her, “Why did you shoot Moran in the head, Wiggins? A body shot would have been easier, and you might have simply injured him. Why did you shoot to kill, if killing a man would bother you so?”

She cocks her tousled head to the side, thoughtfully.

“I wasn’t really thinkin’ things out at the time, but…well, I think it was ta pay ‘im back for Edwin, and for me.”

“But…but…I thought it was Adair that shot Edwin,” I stammer, confused. _Am I forgetting how things happened?_

“He did,” she replies, matter-of-factly. “He deliberately put Edwin through so much pain, same as ‘e used to do ta me years ago, back when ‘e would…back when…” She trails off; then shakes herself abruptly, and takes a fortifying gulp of tea. “Adair was a sick, sadistic _bastard_ , Doc. He was about to shoot Edwin again – and Moran shot _him_ instead.”

I look at her in confusion. “…And that was bad because…?”

“It’s not bad at all. It was more compassion than anyone but Mister Holmes…and you, o’ course, Doctor Watson…has shown me in my whole life.”

Confused silence reigns for a moment. I still don’t understand. _Why would she shoot to kill Moran, if he saved Edwin’s life?_

“I’m sorry – you lost me somehow, Wiggins. You say you killed Moran to repay him…why, exactly?”

“You ‘eard the sirens, Doctor Watson. In another minute that house would be crawlin’ with coppers. ‘E wasn’t gettin’ out o’ there alive. Man like that is like a wild thing, like a wolf. He’d die in prison, in a cage. Mister Holmes’ brother woulda made bloody sure ‘e rotted in jail. So I set ‘im free – to pay ‘im back.” She smiles sadly at my astonished expression.

“Don’tcha see, Doctor Watson? Now I owe Moran nothin’ – Any debt is paid. It’s better that way. Owin’ people … it’s not for me. I make my own way.”

 

oOoOo

 

*I swear on ACD’s grave that I didn’t make the street names up, but how could I _not_ include the fact that John and Edwin are recovering at hospitals on the corner of _Boswell_ and Great _Ormond_ Streets? It was irresistible! Clearly, John Watson was fated to go to this hospital!

**Headley Court is the main British rehabilitation centre for injured members of the British military.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are greatly appreciated!
> 
> Author note: Many thanks to my beta, Skyfullofstars. Sky, thank you for making me stop and think harder about this story. It’s better because of you.
> 
> Thanks to arianedevere and the detailed transcript of “The Reichenbach Fall” at her LJ site: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/tag/transcript
> 
> Disclaimers: Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, Sherlock Holmes originally belonged to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing. This makes me very, very sad.


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